


The End is Only the Beginning

by CreateImagineWrite



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Magic Revealed, Protective Knights, Stupid Arthur
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-23
Updated: 2014-03-23
Packaged: 2018-01-16 18:09:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 24
Words: 36,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1357048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CreateImagineWrite/pseuds/CreateImagineWrite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Merlin is forced to reveal his magic to protect Arthur and Camelot from a vengeful sorcerer who knows who he truly is. Set sometime after Season 4. No slash.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Challenge

Merlin was tired. His royal pratness – also known as King Arthur – had decided to indulge in a fit of dollop-headedness that morning and assigned Merlin more chores than he thought existed in the history of Camelot. Actually, make that the history of the world.

Apparently Arthur didn't notice the fine line between ordering a servant to do something and ordering them to work themselves to death.

-The things he did for the Once and Future King.-

The jug of wine in his hand tipped as he leaned – almost asleep – against a pillar in the banquet hall, and he shot upright as he felt wine soak through the toe of his boot. Oh great, that was going to stain.

You're a warlock, you clot-pole! The voice in his head that sounded a bit like Arthur reprimanded him. Merlin glanced around, making sure no one was looking, and then his eyes flashed gold. The stain disappeared without a trace.

"Merlin!" Arthur's voice erased the smile from his face and he snapped upright. The King rolled his eyes and gestured to his now-empty wine glass.

The magician sighed. This feast was stretching on forever. Yes, it was Queen Gwen's birthday, but really, even Her Highness looked tired. He shot a closer look at Gwen. Despite her smile, she kept shooting exasperated looks at Arthur, who was engaged in a conversation with Gaius across the table and not paying attention to her.

Merlin leaned over to fill his master's glass, his mouth near Arthur's ear. "Arthur, the Queen is trying to get your attention," he murmured.

The King instantly sat up and glanced across at his wife.

Prat, Merlin thought, moving back to his position on the side-lines, Poor Guinevere.

The Queen shot him a grateful look and began whispering to Arthur. Merlin realized she looked more than tired. She looked a little nauseous.

Arthur shot her a concerned look and took her hand, obviously agreeing to whatever she was saying. He made to stand up, obviously intending to announce that he and the Queen were going to retire and finally end this bloody banquet.

As the King opened his mouth to speak, however, the doors to the hall slammed open, the wooden panels crashing into the stone walls on either side with stunning force. Merlin dropped his pitcher, which shattered with a spray of wine and pottery.

A man stood in the doorway, a black cloak billowing over his shoulders. His face was hidden behind shining armor, but no emblem decorated his breastplate. A sword that was the length of Merlin's leg hung at his side, but those were not his most immediate features, for the man was huge, his bulk taking up most of the entranceway.

Stunned silence filled the hall; Arthur stood gaping with one arm still around Gwen. The man stalked forward. Merlin dubbed him "The Giant" for the moment. He walked across the stone floor, fingers of one hand loosening the other's gauntlet. He didn't, however, stop beside Arthur, which Merlin half-expected.

Instead, The Giant kept walking until he stood before Merlin himself. And then Merlin felt it, the power radiating off the man. Magic.

The gauntlet dropped at Merlin's feet, and simultaneously, a voice echoed through his head.

You have much to answer for, Emrys. The voice twisted over the name. Merlin could imagine a sneer twisting The Giant's face behind his visor.

Arthur had finally unfrozen himself, and was moving across the hall. His manservant felt his intent.

Before the King's ring-decorated fingers could wrap around the gauntlet, Merlin's own pale hand had picked up the piece of armor.

He could feel The Giant's emotions roiling behind his visor. Images flashed through Merlin's mind – memories that didn't belong to him. A child, bearing the mark of druid, screaming as a knight of Camelot advanced upon him. A woman, holding a poultice, pleading with another knight that she had meant no harm in using magic. Arthur, sentencing a sorcerer to death. All reason's that the man had come. Why hadn't Emrys, who was supposedly so powerful, not stopped the King from preforming these ill deeds? Why hadn't the greatest sorcerer of all time stood up to the blatant attack on his own kin? Merlin shivered. Even beneath this layer of reasoning, hatred and murder and vengeance roiled in The Giant's heart. He wanted Emrys dead. He wanted Arthur to kneel before him and beg for his life. He wanted Camelot to burn. He wanted to stand upon the battlements and use every ounce of magic within him to make Camelot pay for the lives it had destroyed.

Merlin felt his teeth grit together as he straightened to his full height. He was by no means as tall as the man before him, but he felt strong, anger pulsing through his veins. No one threatened Camelot. No one dared harm the King. He would die before he allowed Arthur to face this man.

"I, Merlin, accept your challenge," he said, and his glare was so potent that he was entirely surprised the man didn't burst into flames.


	2. An Argument

Once The Giant – Merlin really wanted to find out what his real name was – had ordained when and where the duel would be held (In the tournament grounds when the sun was at its peak in the sky), and the rules (a fight to the death), he left the banquet hall as suddenly as he came, leaving the occupants stunned and silent.

Then Gwen fainted, and Arthur practically threw himself across the room to catch her. After Gaius had informed the worried King that his Queen was fine and just needed rest, and Arthur had carried her to the Queen's chambers, the King looked to Merlin, standing in the sidelines.

"Merlin." His voice was soft, nothing like his normal tone, and he opened the door that led to the King's chambers. Traditionally, the Queen would come from her chambers to the King's only when he summoned her, but Merlin was very aware of the fact that Arthur and Gwen only rarely stayed in separate beds.

Merlin followed his King through the door into the relative privacy of the other chamber.

"Merlin," Arthur said again, his voice edged with exasperation and… fear, "Just what did you think you were doing?"

He tried to crack a smile. "Accepting a challenge? Did I not do it right?"

The King's gaze dropped from his, and his knuckles whitened in their grip on the back of a chair. "Why didn't you let me pick it up?"

Merlin's mind flashed through the possible things he could say. Sorry Arthur, but I have magic, and so does that man, and I am not letting you fight a sorcerer because then you'd die and I'd never fulfill my destiny. At least if I fight him I have a chance. "I can fight my own battles, Arthur."

"Merlin." His voice cracked. "How – exactly – are you going to fight him? You can't use a sword, lift a hammer, swing an axe or… or anything!"

Merlin frowned. Now that was going a bit too far. He wasn't entirely useless.

Arthur didn't notice. He was waving an agitated hand at his manservant. "That man is huge. His sword was practically as tall as you! There's no way you can beat him!"

The warlock crossed his arms over his chest. "Nice to know you have so much faith in me," he stated, rolling his eyes.

The King glared at him. "Why aren't you taking this seriously? You could die!"

"Like I said, Arthur, I can fight my own battles."

Camelot's royal ran a hand through his blonde hair, staring at the brunette. "Why did he challenge you, anyways? Do you know him?"

Merlin thought back to the rush of emotions and memories he had felt when The Giant had brushed against his mind. He knew the man's intentions, the man's past, the man's hopes. He did know him, in a way. He sighed. "He wants revenge, Arthur."

"What on earth could you do to make someone want vengeance, Merlin?"

The warlock took a breath. "It wasn't what I did; it's what I didn't do." I didn't tell you about magic. I didn't convince you that there was good along with the evil. I haven't united Albion and brought magic into the light again, like the prophecies say I will.   
"And what didn't you do?"

Merlin opened his mouth. He wanted to tell his King, wanted to tell him he had magic, that he was the one the druids called Emrys. He wanted to tell Arthur everything, but as he looked into his King's eyes, he found he couldn't. A memory recalled itself to the forefront of his mind: "Magic is evil, Merlin. I trust you to remember that."

"I don't want to talk about it," the warlock said.

"Dammit, Merlin! I'm not going to let you get yourself killed because you've developed some sort of sense of honor that demands you repay some stupid debt to this man!"

"You can't just deny him the right to combat, either," Merlin pointed out.

"Then I'll take your place!"

"You can't!"

"I'm the King! I can do anything I want!"

The two men stared at each other for a long moment.

"Arthur," Merlin began, voice soft, "If you have any respect for me at all, you'll let me do this."

The King stared at him, and then his shoulders slumped in defeat as he read the determination in his friend's eyes. "Just… don't die, alright?"

Merlin felt himself grin. "And here I thought you didn't really care about me!" He sobered. "It'll be fine, Arthur." I'm not quite as weak as you think.

"Where've I heard that before?" the royal grumbled, but a slight smile curved his lips nonetheless.


	3. A Red Dawn

If you stepped into Gaius’ chambers, the first thing to strike you would be the smell, a strange and yet pleasant mixture of vinegar and yarrow and rose and lilac, with a touch of cinnamon thrown in. The next thing you would notice would be the multitude of bubbling vials of liquid, ranging in colors from black to bright blue and purple. And then you’d see the books, the mountains of books, teetering in massive piles that grew to the ceiling instead of finding their place on their proper shelves.

But when Merlin stepped into the room, he didn’t appear to notice any of these things, his eyes instead lifting directly to the face of the man who was his father in everything but blood.

Gaius didn’t need words, he just held out his arms towards his ward, and the young man walked into them. For a moment the two just stood there, Merlin feeling marginally safer than he had a moment earlier. His mentor patted him on the back consolingly, and then took a step back, hands on the warlock’s shoulders.

He regarded the brunette through blue-green eyes beneath a wrinkled brow.

Then he slapped his ward lightly – but not too lightly – across the face.

“Ow!” Merlin cried, making an escape. “What was that for?” He rubbed his injured jaw as he retreated backwards from the elderly man.

“ _That_ ,” Gaius stated, brandishing a finger, “is for being the biggest fool to ever set foot on this earth!”

The young warlock shot his guardian a resentful look. “It’s not my fault every evil sorcerer in the world makes it their personal mission to raze Camelot to the ground.”

“Ah, so that’s why you didn’t let the King pick up the gauntlet.”

“I couldn’t very well let Arthur duel a _sorcerer_. There’s only so much you can do to protect a man from the sidelines. It would be too dangerous.”

“And you dueling a sorcerer isn’t dangerous?”

Merlin sighed. “I meant dangerous for Arthur. I can stand my ground against a sorcerer. He can’t be half as powerful as Nimueh, and I killed her.”

“But you might be forced to use your magic,” Gaius pointed out.

The warlock looked away from the physician. “I will do what I must to protect Camelot… and Arthur.” He shrugged. “If that means I have to reveal my magic, then so be it.”

The older man regarded the younger carefully for a moment. “You should tell Arthur, Merlin.”

The brunette ran a hand through his hair. “I… can’t, Gaius. He still blames magic for his father’s death, and his mother’s, and Morgana’s betrayal hasn’t helped things. He doesn’t believe magic even _can_ be good. I can’t tell him.”

“Waiting isn’t helping things.”

“I know.” Merlin’s hand dropped limply back to his side. “I’ll tell him when I’m ready, Gaius.”

The older man didn’t press the matter further. “Go to bed, Merlin. You’ll need your energy for tomorrow.”

His ward nodded haphazardly and headed towards his cupboard of a bedroom. As he closed the door, he brought down the bar as well. He had a sneaking suspicion that Gaius would wake up in the middle of the night and decide to punish him further for being the biggest fool in the world.

* * *

Merlin stared out the window of his room at the rising sun. The dawn was red, the sky tinged with color that he felt represented blood more than it resembled simpering rose petals. Funny how his mood could change his take on things.

He sank back down onto his bed, feeling very, very stupid. How was he going to fight a sorcerer without revealing his magic? Arthur was right about one thing: Merlin wasn’t a warrior. And he couldn’t expect that The Giant would stick to his sword or the non-noticeable forms of magic. He had to be prepared to expect the biggest, flashiest magic the man possessed, from fireballs to conjured weapons.

The warlock rubbed a hand over his forehead. He had no plan, and he didn’t stand much of a chance with the world returning to the way it was before this entire thing had happened. By the end of this he might be executed, or banished. A tiny hopeful part of himself pointed out the last option: _Or maybe Arthur will accept you just the way you are_ , _magic and all._

 _Ha! I doubt it,_ the more pessimistic side of him stated. Silently, Merlin agreed with his inner pessimist.

A sharp rap on his door startled him from his gloomy thoughts.

“Merlin,” Gaius sounded tired, as if he’d stayed up the whole night, “The King is here.”

Arthur was up with the dawn? Well, that was new. Normally the Royal Lazy Daisy preferred to stay in bed until the sun had risen quite a ways over the horizon. He stood and stretched, moving to unbar the door.

The King of Camelot was standing among the wreckage of potions and misplaced books, wearing his usual impeccable attire, despite not having Merlin to help him dress. His brow was furrowed rather unbecomingly.

“Good morning, Sire,” Merlin greeted him, straightening his red neckerchief. “You’re up early.”

Arthur shot him a glare. “Unlike you, _Mer_ lin, I can actually get up at a reasonable time.”

The manservant grinned. “Oh, really? I seem to recall… the one time I actually got up on time and woke you at dawn, you told me never to not be late again.”

The King decided not to reward that statement with an answer and punched the slighter man lightly on the shoulder. “Idiot.”

“Prat,” Merlin replied, smiling. “What _are_ you doing up so early anyways?”

Arthur scratched the back of his head and looked away. “Guinevere got tired of my talking and told me to go and do something useful like find you a decent sword and let her sleep.”

“Worrying about me?” Merlin teased, grinning.

The King looked for a moment as if he was going to deny that statement like he always did, but then his face settled into seriousness. “Yes, actually, I was. So come on.”

He hustled his stunned manservant towards the armoury.

* * *

“How on earth do you _wear_ this?” Merlin gasped, stumbling about in the too-heavy armour Arthur had forced him into. “I can barely walk, much less _breathe_.”

The King ignored him and handed him a sword. Merlin nearly dropped it; gauntlets were hard to get used to. He gripped tighter to the hilt and glanced up.

“Arthur, this is insane. I can barely move. I can’t fight in this.”

They were standing on the training grounds, Arthur looking knightly and royal in his silver armor, with the crest of the Pendragon family proudly displayed on his chest. Merlin looked rather like he felt, like a child trying to wear his father’s armour.

“Stand up straight,” the King barked.

The warlock complied, trying his best to straighten.

“Defend yourself!”

Merlin yelped and leapt away as Arthur swung Excalibur at him.

“Arthur! That thing is sharp!”

“Don’t be such a _girl,_ Merlin. Of course it’s sharp! It’s a sword. Now as I said: Defend yourself!”

His manservant swung wildly with his own sword as Excalibur descended upon him. The swing took him off balance, and he fell over face-first, the weight of his armour dragging him onto the muddy ground.

Merlin groaned into the mud, fingers loosening from their grip on the blade’s hilt.

Arthur stared down at him, expression struggling between a desire to laugh and a desire to weep in despair. Laugh because this predicament was so _Merlin_ , and despair because how on earth was his manservant going to survive a duel if he couldn’t even walk in a suit of armour.

“And that, Merlin, is exactly why I have never made you a knight of Camelot,” Arthur sighed.


	4. A Revelation

Merlin stared at his challenger across the sand of the tournament grounds. Arthur was saying something in the background, explaining the rules and reason for the duel. Merlin didn’t hear him. He stared at The Giant, who had yet to show the face beneath the visor.

A bell tolled in the distance. _Six_ , he told himself silently, counting the tolling bells as he had been for the past few seconds. It felt more like an eternity, an eternity where Arthur’s voice was muffled by the ominous suspense that hung around him like a cloak, and where the giant of a man who might be his death stood across from him, unmoving.

 _Seven_ , the bell tolled. When it reached twelve, it would be the time when the sun was at its peak in the sky, it would be the time when he would either kill or be killed. The sword felt like lead in his hands.

 _Eight._ Arthur had given up on the armor, and opted instead to defend his manservant with a light tunic of chainmail, which hung to his knees, a belt cinching it to his waist so it didn’t swing around him like one of Gwen’s skirts. Leather greaves were strapped to his legs, providing some protection, and he wore a thick shirt of leather beneath the chainmail, which protected his arms. His neckerchief remained in its usual place at his throat.

 _Nine._ Fear settled in a tight knot in Merlin’s stomach. He could hear a similar edge of fear in Arthur’s voice, which was slowly becoming louder as the ominous silence disappeared, as if the aura that surrounded him had been replaced by a cloud of nervous energy instead.

 _Ten._ The warlock turned to look at his King. He forced a grin he didn’t really feel onto his face, trying to assure his friend and master. Arthur stared at him with blue eyes that held no sparkle of humor. They were like pools of still, unmoving water, dead and stagnant.

 _Eleven._ His gaze switched to Gwen at Arthur’s side. Her fingers were linked with her husband’s. She looked so pale, her skin seeming to have lost most of its rich, beautiful tone. Spontaneously, he inclined his head respectfully, giving his Queen and King their royal recognition, something he’d never done before, perhaps the first and last time he ever would, and then he turned to face The Giant.

The bell tolled for the last time. The noise reverberated in his skull. His heart thumped rapidly. He hefted his sword. _Twelve._ _If you have any courage at all, Merlin,_ he told himself, _now would be a good time to find it._

Then The Giant made his first move, and Merlin threw himself aside to avoid the swing of the huge man’s just-as-huge sword.

Arthur felt himself surge to his feet, his mind not even recognizing the movement, the second his manservant had turned away. _Merlin_ didn’t bow to royalty. _Merlin_ didn’t even bother to call him “Sire” or “Your Majesty” unless he was jesting. Never had, never would. But he had just bowed… as if he was saying good-bye.

Suddenly, Gwen’s hold on his hand was the only thing keeping him anchored to the viewing grounds and preventing him from launching himself into the tournament grounds and defending his manservant – no, his _friend_ – as that massive sword cleaved the air and struck the ground where Merlin had been standing a second earlier.

Merlin rolled to his feet, sword in hand, looking more like a knight than his usual clumsy self. His dark hair flung back from his brow, and for the first time since Arthur had met him, Merlin actually looked fierce, the manservant’s grey-blue eyes cold and glinting with anger. There was none of the playful banter or biting teasing he had experienced at their first meeting, that fight in the marketplace. His manservant looked… murderous.

Merlin brought his sword up and blocked the heavy swing of the other man, arms quivering with the effort. He disengaged by taking a step back and to the side, and The Giant stalked him, like some monstrous, massive beast of prey.

The two combatants circled each other slowly. Merlin’s gaze rested warily on the huge man’s visor. Suddenly his expression twisted with hatred, and he flung himself across the space to swing at the other man, as if his challenger had said something Arthur couldn’t hear.

The blade nearly connected with The Giant’s neck, but the man’s massive sword blocked it just in time, and the smaller brunette was forced to duck. He somersaulted through the other man’s legs, coming up behind him and attempting to stab through the weaker point in the man’s armour beneath the arms.

His blow never connected, because the huge warrior turned and slammed a heavily-armoured fist into his manservant’s face. Merlin flew back a few feet, landing on his back. Guinevere gasped from behind him. Fear rose in Arthur’s throat.

Merlin looked even smaller as The Giant stalked forward and stood over him, sword raised. His manservant’s sword was still in his hand, but he hadn’t recovered from the blow to his face.

Then his challenger spoke. “So, _Emrys_ , you are loyal to your King, but not to your own kind.”

 _Emrys? Who is Emrys?_ Arthur thought.

“I will give my loyalty to those who deserve it, and _you_ do not,” Merlin gasped, glaring at the larger man. A multicolored bruise was already spreading across his face, his mouth set in a grimace of pain.

The Giant’s voice was steeped in hatred when he replied. “You will see your King die before I kill you.”

He turned to Arthur, face hidden beneath his visor. A prickle of fear ran up the King’s spine.

The Giant raised a hand in Arthur’s direction. Then: “ _Forbærne! Ácwele!”_

Fire blossomed into existence and sped towards the King. Arthur took a panicked step backwards. Gwen screamed. Then Merlin moved faster than Arthur had ever seen anyone.

“NO!” His voice was fierce and loud. He spoke no words, but a transparent, lilac-colored film suddenly obscured the air in front of Arthur. The fireball exploded against it, scattering sparks over the ground, and the shield faded.

Merlin was advancing on The Giant, his blue eyes no longer blue, but shimmering gold with magic. “You should not have done that,” he said, and despite the softness to his voice, there was an edge to it that made the larger man take a hurried step back. His manservant raised one hand, eyes still glowing unnaturally.

His voice was ominous. “ _Swelte! Baerne!”_

The Giant quite suddenly screamed and burst into flames. In the span of mere seconds, the huge man had been reduced to a pile of ash, even his armour burnt.

Slowly, Merlin turned to face him, pain etched into his features.

“Arthur…” His voice cracked. “I’m sorry.”

He took a few steps forward and fell to his knees before the royals, eyes still locked with his master’s. A series of emotions swept through Arthur. Shock, relief, anger, and then betrayal.

“You have magic.” Arthur was impressed with how steady his voice was, how cold.

Tears were filling Merlin’s eyes. “Arthur… I should have told you.”

“Yes, you should have.” His voice was detached. This felt unreal. He trusted Merlin, had trusted Merlin…

“Arthur…”

The King cut him off. “So what do you want from me? Was it your goal to get close to me so you could destroy me like the rest of your kind wants to? To get me to trust you so that you could destroy what little family I have left?”

Someone gasped somewhere to his right. Probably Gwaine. Shock crossed his manservant’s features. “Arthur… No, it’s not like that.”

And then Arthur was yelling. “I _trusted_ you! I would have given my life for you! I’ve protected you since we first met, and _this_ is how you repay me?”

Merlin’s tears ran down his face. “Arthur.”

The King gritted his teeth. “Get out of my sight,” he hissed.

The warlock stood slowly, eyes sad, tears still on his cheeks. “As you wish, my King.” He bowed, ever so slowly, eyes locked with Arthur’s. The King could see the pain in them, and the resignation, as if he had known this would happen. Then he murmured something Arthur didn’t hear, and vanished in a flash of golden light.

And part of Arthur’s heart vanished with him.


	5. The Sting of Betrayal

Arthur stood rigid by the window of the King’s chambers, staring unseeingly into the moonlit courtyard of the castle. A mixture of anger and pain twisted his lips into a downward curve.

Gwen took a wary step towards her husband. It was nearing the middle of the night, and Arthur was not in his proper place – sleeping at her side.

She sighed inwardly. “Arthur?”

He jumped at the sound of her voice, startled from whatever line of thought he had been on. She was pretty sure she knew what it was. After all, it wasn’t every day you learned that the man you thought you knew was something entirely different.

 _Merlin? A sorcerer?_ Her mind struggled with the implications, quailed at what it would feel to her King, if even she felt the betrayal. In a way, though, it made sense. Tree branches _did_ have a tendency to drop on enemies with alarming frequency around the manservant, and despite not being a knight, Merlin had survived more near-death experiences than some of Camelot’s most hardened warriors. No, it definitely made sense.

Arthur stared at her with those dead eyes, and she suddenly desperately wanted him to smile at her. “Arthur, you should be asleep.”

The King sighed heavily. “I can’t, Gwen, I just… can’t.”

The Queen regarded him for a long moment, then she sat down on the bed and patted the blanket beside her. “Come here,” she ordered, relishing the fact that she was the only person who would be able to do this. Being his wife had some definite advantages.

Arthur’s lips twitched in an almost-smile, and he crossed the distance between them to sit beside her. His arm wrapped around her waist, and he fit his head into the crook of her shoulder, other hand linking with hers. They were both silent for a moment, and Gwen waited.

His thumb caressed her hand lightly before he spoke. “Magic killed my parents,” he stated factually, voice quiet.

“Merlin didn’t kill your parents,” Gwen stated, just as factually.

“I was always taught magic was evil, Gwen. _Evil_.” He sounded so lost, nothing like a King, the man instead of the royal.

Gwen pressed her lips to his hair and waited for him to go on.

“Am I just supposed to accept that the man we knew was really evil at heart? _Mer_ lin could barely hurt a fly. But you saw what he did to that man…” Arthur’s voice faded.

His tone was tinged with anger when he spoke again. “He didn’t even tell us his real name. That Giant called him _Emrys_. He lied to me.”

“People can have more than one name, Arthur. Perhaps he is Merlin to us and Emrys to them. Maybe he lied to them, not to you,” Gwen reasoned.

Arthur pulled away from her, though he still left his fingers intertwined with hers. “Magic is evil, Gwen. Every sorcerer I’ve ever met has wanted something from me. They want power, or vengeance for not being allowed to use their power. They enjoy killing people, and torturing them. You know what happened to Morgana. She was always the good little girl who did what father said, and then…” His voice trailed off. He didn’t need to explain what had happened to Morgana. “Merlin _destroyed_ that man, with two words. No man should have that power.”

Gwen didn’t know how to answer that.

“And Merlin? A sorcerer?” Arthur laughed, but harshly. She didn’t like it. “It explains so much, how so many people could sneak into the castle, how sorcerers in the dungeons escaped. And no one would suspect him, because he’s so… _Mer_ lin.” The King let go of her hand and ran his fingers through his hair. “How could I be so stupid?”

Gwen opened her mouth to protest, though she didn’t know if her response was going to be to defend Merlin or tell her husband that he wasn’t stupid. She struggled with the two sides, and Arthur spoke again before she could answer.

“I trusted him, Gwen, more than anyone. More than even you, I think.”

Tears pricked at the Queen’s eyes. She had betrayed him in a much more intimate way. _Lancelot…_

“He’s been with me ever since he saved me from that witch’s knife. He’s followed me into every battle. He drank poison for me. He convinced me I could be King after my father died. How am I supposed to accept that magic is going to corrupt his soul and turn him against me just like it did with Morgana? I can never trust him again.”

Gwen didn’t know what to say. Something nagged at her conscious. She should defend Merlin. Would someone who drank poison to save Arthur really want to hurt him? But at the same time, would someone who truly cared about Arthur keep a secret like _this_ from him?

_Unless…_

Arthur was talking again, his eyes were dark. “Magic is evil and it has been seeking to destroy Camelot forever. It took my father from me, and your father, and my mother, and Morgana, and now even Merlin. It must be destroyed. My father was right. Magic has no place in our country. It will be best for everyone if all sorcerers were dead.” He paused for a moment before he went on. “Even Merlin.”

 _Unless Merlin had known Arthur would react like this_.


	6. A Full Moon

The clearing appeared in front of Merlin in a shimmer of golden light. Once the magic of the teleportation spell faded, the forest was dark, which was the first sign to Merlin that something had gone wrong. He’d left Camelot by way of magic when the sun was at its peak at the sky. Now it was the middle of the night.

 _Is that a full moon?_ Merlin stared at the night sky. There wasn’t supposed to be a full moon for another seven-day, and he should know, because the full moon offered the opportunity to cast certain spells that couldn’t be cast any time else.

He was wrenched from his contemplation of the celestial bodies by a very bear-like roar, and then something slammed in to him that had a lot of momentum behind it.

Merlin staggered backwards, only kept upright by the arms that had wrapped around his waist.

“Where’ve you _been_ , mate? I thought you’d come to Ealdor, and your mother thought you’d probably appear in this clearing if you did, but a whole seven-day? Where _have_ you been?”

The warlock stared at the familiar grin on the man’s face. “Gwaine? What are you doing here?”

“What, do you really think I was going to stay with the Princess? Guess he’s Queen now, actually. You’re my friend, Merlin, and there’s nothing else keeping me in Camelot.”

“But…” Merlin didn’t know what to say. “Isn’t deserting the knights punishable by death?”

Gwaine laughed. “Oh yes, I’m really afraid of the idiot King coming after me. I can take care of myself. You, however… I intend to make sure you don’t die or do something stupid.”

“I’ll be sure to remind you of that next time I’m dragging you completely drunk from a tavern,” the warlock grinned. “I think I take care of you more than you take care of me, Gwaine.”

The knight waved a hand dismissively. “That’s different. But really, Merlin, where were you? I expected you to be here when I got to Ealdor.”

A slight blush crept up Merlin’s neck, and he was glad that the darkness hid the flush coloring his face. “I think I made a mistake when I said the spell. The last thing I remember is…” Pain stung his heart as the memory returned, “bowing to Arthur…”

Gwaine slung a comforting arm over his friend’s shoulders. “Don’t think about the prat right now. I, for one, think it’s great that you have magic. Explains a lot too, like why you manage to survive in battle so much without wearing armour, and that creepy girl who turned out to be a… what was she again?”

“A Lamia,” Merlin supplied, a smile twitching on his lips.

“Yes, that. Explains lots, and anyways, you don’t need the Princess – Queen, I mean – because you’ve got me.” Gwaine grinned down at the warlock.

Merlin forced a laugh, the tightness in his chest not really lifting. Arthur was his destiny, and now… “Why does that not make me feel better?” He teased the knight half-heartedly.

“It should,” Gwaine informed him, giving him a light shake. “Let’s go show you to your mother, why don’t we? She’s been worried. I don’t think she likes me very much.”

He actually managed a real laugh at that. “Gwaine, if I was any self-respecting woman, I wouldn’t like you either. You’re always drunk.”

The knight attempted to look offended. “I resent that! I’m not drunk right now.”

Merlin leaned over a tad and sniffed his friend’s shoulder. “Oh, and that alcohol I smell, that’s just my mother’s lilac perfume, is it?”

* * *

Gwaine sat up and looked over at Merlin. Faint rays of sunshine were peaking over the horizon; he could see them through the window. He didn’t normally wake up this early, but he was worried. He’d seen the deadness in Merlin’s eyes when they stood in that clearing. He had no idea he would miss that mischievous glint so much.

The warlock was fast asleep. Despite the fact that he was old enough to be called a man, albeit a young one, he looked like a child when he was asleep, someone who should be protected. He hadn’t bothered to take his neckerchief off. Gwaine vaguely wondered if he’d still look like Merlin without it. That piece of red fabric was as distinct in Merlin as his rather large ears and high cheekbones.

The knight ran a hand through his own hair and glanced out the window again. He could try to go back to sleep. He doubted Hunith would wake them for a while.

Merlin mumbled something indistinct and rolled over in his blankets, one pale arm flinging out and nearly hitting Gwaine in the face.

 _Apparently he’s clumsy even in his sleep,_ the knight thought, staring at the long fingers mere inches from his nose. _How he’s survived this long…_ Gwaine carefully moved Merlin’s arm back onto his bed. He wondered how he could have thought the man was just lucky. No one survived so many near-death experiences without some sort of skill. Apparently that skill was magic. And Merlin had kept it a secret from them all. Merlin, who couldn’t keep a secret to save his life.

And then, when he was finally forced to reveal it – when he saved Arthur’s life – the ungrateful prat sent him away. No wonder Merlin hadn’t told anyone, if this is what he had feared would happen. Gwaine felt a surge of hatred towards his King. Merlin didn’t deserve to be treated like this. He had protected Arthur and perhaps saved the King’s life more times than Gwaine knew, but instead of being _thankful_ that Merlin stopped that fireball from killing him, he told his most loyal servant to “get out of his sight.”

 _The man should be begging Merlin to be his Court Sorcerer!_ Gwaine thought angrily. He glared out to window in the direction of Camelot.

“Gwaine?” a sleepy voice queried.

He snapped back to reality and glanced over at his friend. Those blue eyes, clouded with sleep, still didn’t hold that mischievous glint he so wanted to see.

“What are you doing awake?” Merlin asked. “You never wake up at dawn.”

“Just thinking. Go back to sleep, Merlin.”

He sat up instead, rubbing his eyes. “Thinking about what?”

 _Stubborn sorcerer. Never could listen to orders, could he? And I can’t very well say, “You”, can I?_ “Just wondering what we’re going to do next,” he substituted.

Merlin was silent for a moment. “I was thinking… that I’d like to visit the Druids. If that’s alright with you…? I want to be with people like me.”

“Wherever you go Merlin, I’m coming with you. We can leave whenever you want. Now go back to sleep. You didn’t get to bed until after midnight.”

The young man sank back into the blankets and obediently closed his eyes. He was quiet for a moment, and when he spoke, his voice was sleepy, on the edge of sinking back into dreams. “You’re taking it so much better than Arthur… I always thought that _he’d_ be the one who’d come with me to see the Druids, and hear about his destiny, and mine… and get rid of the ban on magic…” His voice was getting quieter, and his lips were twisted into a downward curve. It looked so _wrong_ on Merlin. Merlin was supposed to smile and laugh, not frown. The younger man didn’t say anything more, and a after a minute, his even breathing told Gwaine that he’d fallen asleep again.

The knight felt the stab of hatred towards Arthur. It was the King’s fault that he had a desire to lean over and smooth the wrinkles from Merlin’s brow, furrowed in sorrow even as he slept. _Next time I see Arthur,_ Gwaine thought, frowning and lying back down, _I’m going to take my sword…_

He fell asleep to happy visions of the Princess, er, Queen, wearing one of Gwen’s dresses and sprinting through the forest with an angry Gwaine on his heels.


	7. Speaking to Her Reflection

Gwen stared, on the verge of tears yet again, at her reflection in the mirror of her vanity table. She dabbed fruitlessly at her cheeks. It wouldn’t do for Arthur to walk in on her like this.

Arthur, who barely looked at her. Arthur, who hadn’t touched her in the weeks since Merlin had disappeared. Arthur, who was slowly, steadily becoming more obsessed with destroying all magic than his father ever had been.

She stared at herself in the mirror, silently willing the tears to stop. She loved Arthur. This was supposed to be a happy time. Finally all the mood swings and nausea over the past month made sense. She was probably two months along, by her estimation. And now Arthur was turning out to be the prat Merlin had always said he was.

She missed Merlin. She missed Gwaine. She missed Arthur, the old Arthur who professed his undying love and brought her flowers and held tournaments in her honor. She missed Lancelot.

She quickly banished that thought from her mind. _You do_ not _miss Lancelot_ , she told her reflection sternly. It was a forbidden thought.

Oh, this was all Arthur’s fault. She dashed the tears from her cheeks and tried to pull herself together. How was she going to tell her husband that she was pregnant? Getting him to stay in the same room as her for more than few seconds would be a start. The King didn’t listen to her anymore. Ever since… the memory flashed through her head.

_Arthur leaned over a map of Camelot, which was decorated with a multitude of little red pins. An uncomfortable Sir Leon stood beside him._

“ _Sire, don’t you think that’s a bit drastic? The Druids have always been a peaceful people. Even your father…”_

_Arthur cut him off with a wave of his hand. “Druids have magic, Leon. Magic is evil.”_

_Gwen let the door swing closed behind her with a sharp snap. Arthur spun around at the sound._

“ _Guinevere! Didn’t you ever learn to knock?”_

_She stared at him, surprised at his sharp tone. “I’m your wife, Arthur. These are my chambers as much as they are yours,” she stated slowly. “I shouldn’t have to knock.”_

“ _This doesn’t concern you.” Arthur dismissed her._ Arthur dismissed her!

_Gwen placed her hands on her hips and glared at her husband. “I’m the Queen of Camelot just as much as you are King, Arthur. If it concerns Camelot, it concerns me!”_

_Leon looked like he wanted to run away. Gwen didn’t blame him. Who would want to listen to the royal pair arguing?_

_Arthur turned, ever so slowly, to face her. His face was red with supressed rage._

“ _You are only Queen by marriage, Guinevere,” he spat. “And I can change that if I so wish.”_

The tears were back. Arthur wasn’t the man she’d married. The Arthur she’d married would never have ignored her counsel or kept her from advising him in decisions concerning the welfare of their country. That Arthur would never have treated her as if she was nothing. That Arthur would never start a war with the peaceful Druids.

And that’s what he was doing, slowly narrowing down the places where the Druid people might be camped, with the intention to hunt them down and drive them from Camelot, or kill them if they refused to.

Guinevere desperately hoped that Merlin was anywhere except with the Druid people. If they tried to protect him, Arthur would only be harsher towards them. She was beginning to think that Arthur had turned into Uther, with his hatred of magic and inability to listen to any advice.

The Knights had even come to her, worried for their King. She had been forced to order Elyan to obey orders from Arthur. Her brother was horrified at the way her husband had been treating her. He would have been quite glad to throw the King of Camelot into a pit in the forest until he apologized, but she didn’t want her brother to get into trouble. Even Percival, who was usually on Arthur’s side, was unhappy with the orders he was being forced to follow. The loyalty of the Knights of the Round Table was being undermined, and Gwaine’s disappearance had only contributed to the effect. The Knights were disheartened. They looked to their Queen and began to resent their King, who had ordered the arrest of many supposed sorcerers.

Even as they tried to avoid these orders, the dungeons were full of women and men, even children, who had been rumoured to have magic. Many of them, Gwen was sure, had never done anything to harm anyone in their entire lives.

Her tears were beginning to dry. She needed to be strong, so she could attempt to hold together a Kingdom that Arthur was slowly destroying with his anger. At least one of the royals needed to be wise and keep the loyalty of the Knights.

A knock on her door interrupted her thoughts, and she quickly dashed the tears from her cheeks. Her eyes were red, but there was nothing she could do about that.

“Come in,” she said, proud of how steady her voice was.

Elyan entered her chambers. “Gwen?”

She tried to smile at her brother, but her lips curved downward and she felt the tears starting again. She covered her face with her hands.

“Gwen?” Elyan was across the room in a heartbeat. He took her hands in his own. “What’s wrong? What is it?”

She started sobbing for real, and her brother pulled her gently into his arms, stroking her hair comfortingly. “Shh,” he soothed. “What’s wrong? What has Arthur done now?” His eyes were dark, his tone angry.

“He doesn’t love me anymore, Elyan. Ever since Merlin left…”

Her brother took a step back to look her in the eye. “He does love you, Gwen. He’s just… forgotten. He’ll remember again soon enough. He has to realize eventually that Merlin having magic is the reason he’s survived for so long. Merlin’s been protecting him the entire time and none of us were observant enough to notice. I always thought we were just lucky, but now I don’t think so, and without Merlin, there’s no way we can stay unharmed for much longer. It was him who knocked over the cup of life, him who got Arthur to leave Camelot so he wouldn’t die, him who collapsed the tower with the dragon egg, and so many other things. If Morgana attacks us again…”

He reached over and wiped the tears from his sister’s cheeks. “He’ll see soon enough, and then things will be as they were. The Druids have magic. All we have is strength and courage. Arthur will lose this fight, and Merlin will have to save him, and maybe he’ll realize how much of a prat he is. Merlin was definitely right about that.”

Gwen made a sound that was half-sob, half-laugh.

“Don’t worry, Gwen. It’ll be alright.” He smiled encouragingly.

She burst into tears again. “No, it won’t. I’m pregnant, and I can’t even tell him because he won’t talk to me.”

Elyan stared at her. “You’re… what?”

“I’m carrying Arthur’s child,” she sobbed.

Her brother looked like he couldn’t decide whether to congratulate her or kill Arthur for putting her in this position. “Well,” he managed, “At least if Arthur gets himself killed being an idiot, he’ll have an heir to the throne.”

Gwen didn’t really hear him, distracted by the sobs shaking her frame.

“Let’s get you to Gaius, shall we?” He wrapped a comforting arm around his sister’s waist and guided her towards the door.


	8. Destiny... And Horses

Gwaine shot a subtle look over at Merlin. They were saddling horses. Or, rather, Merlin was saddling the horses. By magic. The Knight wondered if his friend had done all of Arthur’s chores this way.

They had stayed in Ealdor for a fortnight, but they had finally bidden farewell to Hunith and bought horses in the town with Gwaine’s considerable wealth. He did have a noble background, after all, even if Arthur had knighted him without knowing about it.

He’d been thinking about what Merlin had said when he’d told Gwaine he wanted to visit the Druids. “So,” he caught the warlock’s attention, “What’s this destiny you were talking about before you fell asleep that first night you were here?”

Merlin shot him a wary look and then turned his gaze down to the stable’s straw-covered floor, shifting uneasily. “Well…” He sounded reluctant to explain.

“Come on, Merlin, I already know you have magic. How bad can it be?” He grinned teasingly.

Blue eyes suddenly stared into his own, some sort of intense emotion in their depths. “Apparently, I’m _Emrys_ , this all-powerful warlock who’s supposed to unite the five kingdoms of Albion and bring magic into the light again.” He said this all in a rush, and took a deep breath before he went on. “With the Once and Future King, who happens to be Arthur.” His words were nearly unintelligible by the end, his voice got so quiet.

 _Oh,_ Gwaine thought. _That’s how bad it can be._ Not only had Arthur decided Merlin was evil, he’d destroyed all the hopes that the warlock had. He was _definitely_ going to kill the stupid man the next time he saw him.

“Ah,” he choked out in reply to Merlin’s outburst.

Merlin’s eyes were dead again. His pale fingers wrapped into tight fists as he looked away from Gwaine to the saddle that was strapping itself to a horse of its own accord. “Yeah…” he said, wrapping one arm around his torso as if he was trying to hold himself together. “‘Ah’ sums it right up.”

Several minutes of silence later, they were galloping out of the town of Ealdor. The knight looked over at his friend, not liking the brooding look on the younger man’s face. “So… an all-powerful warlock, eh?”

Merlin rewarded him with a slight smile. “Yeah.”

Gwaine grinned in reply. “So how exactly does an all-powerful warlock accidentally move himself a week forward in time when he magics himself across leagues of land?”

The sorcerer glared at him. “You’re never going to let me forget that, are you?”

His grin got even bigger. “Never.”

Merlin rolled his eyes. “Teleportation magic is tricky. I could’ve magicked myself forward years instead of just days. Next time I’ll use something more reliable when I’m being banished, like horses, or a dragon.”

Gwaine shot him a curious look. “All the dragons are dead,” he pointed out.

Merlin winced. “Oh, about that, I kind of lied to Arthur about him killing the Great Dragon.”

The Knight stopped his horse short, staring at his friend. “You did _what?_ “

The warlock shrugged. “I’m also a Dragonlord. I couldn’t very well let Arthur kill the last of the race, could I? I ordered him to leave after he went and knocked Arthur and all the Knights out.”

 _Dragonlord_ , Gwaine mouthed the word silently. Merlin didn’t really do things by halves, did he?

“And there are actually two dragons. That dragon egg we were supposed to destroy, I didn’t destroy it. I hatched it, which is something only a Dragonlord can do. Her name’s Aithusa.”

“They have _names_?” he choked out.

“Yep,” Merlin answered cheerily. He was obviously happy to be able to tell someone this. “The Great Dragon is named Kilgharrah.”

“And there’s a male and a female,” Gwaine stated slowly. “So there might be _more_ dragons after this.”

The warlock cocked his head to the side, considering this. “I suppose so, yes. But Kilgharrah’s quite old, and Aithusa is newly hatched. If anything the only role he has is as guardian, at least for now. I’m not sure how their culture works exactly.”

The Knight swallowed nervously.

“But you needn’t worry, Gwaine. They have to listen to me, so they’re not going to do any harm.”

“Forgive me if that’s not actually assuring.”

Merlin shot him a glare. “I’ve saved you and the other Knights and Arthur from dying more times than you know.”

“Yes, about that,” Gwaine said, “how about you start from the beginning, and no leaving out the important bits, like being a Dragonlord, or a heir to some random throne, or any other massive secret you’ve been hiding so well.”

The warlock snorted with laughter. “I’m not royal, Gwaine. Can you imagine me on a throne?” He gestured to his slim frame.

The more muscular man gave him a calculating glance. “I don’t know, Merlin. I’m beginning to think anything is possible with you.”

Merlin rolled his eyes. “Try telling Arthur that.” His eyes went blank and dead again, and he turned away from Gwaine to watch the road passing beneath their feet.

The knight desperately tried to think of something to say to distract his friend. For a moment, he had seen the old Merlin back with the mischievous glint in his eyes, when the warlock had been talking about magic. “So,” he said quickly, “Any chance I’ll get to meet a dragon?”

Merlin shot him an incredulous look. “You actually want to meet a dragon?”

Gwaine shrugged. “Super strong magical beastie that breathes fire and can fly. What’s not to like?”

The warlock snorted with laughter again, mischievous glint thankfully returning. “I dunno, Gwaine. You drink so much alcohol. If Kilgarrah so much as sneezes around you, you might burst into flames!”


	9. Vanity

Merlin sat up on his bedroll by the campfire, which was nothing more than a smoldering circle of ash, having burnt away all the wood that had been stoked up the previous evening. He shot a glance over at Gwaine. The Knight was fast asleep, light snores emanating from his open mouth. He had one arm thrown up over his head, fingertips grazing the grass of the clearing they were camped in. His hair was scattered around his face, about as messy as it could get.

The warlock had to grin. _Oh, the hair_. He had learned quite early on that you didn’t mess with Gwaine’s hair, unless you had a death wish. Apparently ruffling those brunette locks came with the penalty of finding yourself at the wrong end of a sword. When it came to looks, the Knight was even vainer than Arthur. Merlin brushed the thought aside. He didn’t want to think about Arthur.

He stood and stretched, and then went to look for more firewood.

An hour later, as the sun topped the trees around the clearing, Merlin waited for the smell of the food he was cooking to wake Gwaine. If there was anything Gwaine loved more than his hair and taverns, it was food.

Sure enough, after a few minutes, the Knight stirred a bit, and then cracked an eye open to look at Merlin.

“Food?” he groaned, looking reluctant to leave the warmth of his bedroll.

“What? Just ‘food’? No ‘Good morning, Merlin. How are you, Merlin?’” The warlock teased.

“Good morning, Merlin,” the Knight obliged. “Food?”

Merlin rolled his eyes. “Yes, there’s food.”

* * *

We’re back in Camelot,” Merlin muttered, looking warily around at the trees from his perch on his horse’s back. He shifted in the saddle, looking as if he felt like turning around and heading back to Ealdor.

Gwaine gave the trees an once-over and turned to his friend, brow furrowed. “How can you tell? It all looks the same to me.”

“I can sense it,” Merlin said uneasily. His hands twisted in the reins, a nervous gesture.

Gwaine noticed. “I wouldn’t worry too much,” the Knight assured him. “I’ve never been on a patrol that went this far up the road.”

“It’s not the patrols I’m worried about,” the warlock said nervously, so quiet that Gwaine wasn’t sure he was meant to hear.

He answered as if he had anyways. “We’re not going to see Arthur, Merlin. It’ll be fine.”

The slighter man didn’t answer, but he looked more nervous with each step his horse made. “We’re going to be passing through a town soon,” he spoke suddenly. “Arthur and I used to pass through there all the time, when we were hunting, or on patrols. They’ll probably recognize us.”

Gwaine rolled his eyes. “What are they going to do about it? By the time they see us we’ll be galloping on through.”

“I would feel more comfortable if we were disguised.”

“How are we going to be disguised? We have one extra pair of clothes each, a couple horses, some food and some coins… we have nothing to disguise ourselves…”

Merlin raised an eyebrow, cutting off his monologue.

 _Oh_ , Gwaine thought. _Right._ “Never mind. What must we do, oh all-powerful warlock?”

It was Merlin’s turn to roll his eyes, pulling his horse to a stop. “It won’t take long. Let’s stop for a bit.”

They tied their horses to a nearby tree and the warlock leaned against another, thinking. “I’ve only used an ageing spell a few times, and I normally used a potion to change back. I got stuck as an eighty-year-old man once.” He grinned at Gwaine. “Nearly got burned at the stake by Uther.”

The Knight stared at him. “What?”

Merlin waved a hand dismissively. “That time Gwen got accused of putting a love spell on Arthur. Was actually Morgana, not that sorcerer they caught in Arthur’s chambers. That was me. Seemed like the best way to save Gwen.”

Gwaine put a hand over his eyes. “You’re telling me… that you actually revealed yourself as a sorcerer? And purposely got caught? And nearly got burned at the stake?”

The warlock shrugged. “Hey, it worked, didn’t it? Gwen and Arthur were fine, and Gaius managed to make the potion in time, so I didn’t die either.”

Gwaine just gaped at him, mouth opening and closing like a fish.

“Now be quiet,” Merlin told him. “I’m trying to think of the spell…”

“Oh, no,” the Knight yelped. “You are _not_ turning yourself into an eighty-year-old man! I can think of a million things that could go wrong… like…”

Merlin wasn’t listening. He was speaking, in that creepy voice he had when he was casting a spell. “Miht dagan, beþecce me. Adeadaþ þisne gast min freondum ond min feondum!” His eyes did the weird glowing-gold thing, and the warlock’s frame shimmered strangely.

Gwaine stared as the now-elderly Merlin shimmered back into view. “No way.”

He looked like he was older than Gaius, with stark white hair that hung past his shoulders, and a long white beard. There was something about his eyes that looked a bit like the younger man, but everything else was so _strange_. He reached out to finger the beard, and the elderly man slapped his hand away.

“Hey, keep your hands off the beard, you young whippersnapper!” It didn’t sound much like Merlin’s voice at all, except for the teasing edge. Gwaine didn’t know how a voice could sound elderly, but Merlin’s did.

“ _No_ way!” Gwaine exclaimed, staring at him. “You’re that man, the old sorcerer who was trying to get on the horse. You knocked me, Elyan, Leon and Percival out!”

“What was I supposed to do? You were going to drag me back to Uther and burn me at the stake! And you tried to run me through with a sword,” Merlin pointed out.

The Knight’s mouth did the gasping fish thing again.

The sorcerer was considering Gwaine intently. “Now, how shall we disguise you?”

Gwaine took a rushed step backwards, arms windmilling. “No! You are not going to make me eighty years old! What if you can’t change me back?”

Merlin rolled his eyes. “Fine, I won’t. I’ll do a glamour spell, make you look like someone you’re not. Don’t worry, I’ll be able to change it back pretty easily.”

The knight eyed him warily. “You’re sure?”

“I’m sure,” Merlin assured him. “Now stay still.” He raised a hand. “Pecce treowan andwlitan heora fram gesihol eallra!”

Gwaine experienced a strange tickling sensation and yelped, taking several hurried steps backward. His face felt weird, and his hair, which normally brushed against his neck, suddenly seemed to shoot backwards into his skull, while his normally bare jaw grew a beard with great haste. His nose lengthened, which was the strangest thing the Knight had experienced, watching his own nose get longer before his eyes.

He reached up to feel the strange new features. Merlin looked satisfied.

“What do I look like?” he asked, brushing a hand through his oddly short hair.

“Nothing like yourself,” the warlock beamed happily.

The knight looked around for something to see his reflection in, and spotted the pot Merlin had used for breakfast strapped to the saddlebags. He walked over and grabbed it, inspecting himself.

He still looked handsome enough, though rather in a different way, and his eyes were now vividly green rather than their normal brown, and his hair was blonde. _Oh, God._ He stared in horror.

“Merlin! What have you done to my hair?”


	10. Loneliness

Arthur woke to silence. The bed next to him was cold and empty. He and Gwen hadn’t spent a night together since over a month earlier. A month in which he still had not become accustomed to waking to silence. In truth, he could have hired another servant, but how could anyone replace Merlin?

So every morning, he half expected it to be a dream, that Merlin would walk in and throw open the curtains in that infuriatingly energized motion of his and say one of those horribly, ridiculously cheerful morning greeting. He had no idea he would miss being woken up so much.

The silence was a reminder of what had happened. Merlin was a sorcerer. Merlin had betrayed him. But here in the early hours of morning, he didn’t feel angry. He just felt sad, with a deep ache in his chest that was more painful than any battle wound he had ever sustained. It was as if a part of his heart was missing.

When he was with the council, or when he leaned over maps and planned battle strategies and defenses against magical attacks, he forced himself to feel angry, to feel betrayed. He took all his emotions brought about by Merlin’s true nature and formed them into a potent anger that was his weapon against magic. However, when he was alone, like he was now, in the cover of darkness, all he felt was pain and loneliness.

He just wanted it to be like it was before, when he had never known he was being lied to, when he had never known that his absolute trust in his manservant was extremely misplaced.

He wanted Merlin back, Merlin as he was before. Not Merlin the sorcerer, but Merlin his friend.

* * *

Several days ride away, Merlin awoke feeling much the same, except the ache in his heart was rather out-weighed by the aches everywhere else in his body.

He groaned. He’d forgotten this particular downside to ageing spells. Maybe he should’ve done a glamour spell on himself as well as on Gwaine. He thought about sitting up for a moment, and then decided it wasn’t worth it.

 _How does Gaius manage to get up earlier than me every morning if he feels like this?_ Merlin wondered.

He contemplated the sky, which was cloudless, for a few minutes, trying to convince his aged limbs that they had to get a move on. Then the sky was blocked out by an unfamiliar face, and he was on his feet faster than he thought he’d ever be able to move, bringing his magic to the surface as he went thought offensive spells in his memory.

“Woah!” The blonde man who had startled him held up his hands in a gesture of peace. “Merlin, it’s me.”

“Oh, God, Gwaine,” Merlin gasped, dropping the wrinkled hand he’d raised towards the disguised knight and letting the golden glow fade from his eyes. “You scared me!”

The Knight crossed his arms across his chest and pouted a little. “It’s not my fault that my normally inviting, stunning good looks have been ruined.”

The more elderly of the two stretched, hearing his neck pop as he did so. _Stupid, old, aching body_ , he thought bitterly. This had definitely not been one of his better ideas. “Stop sulking, Gwaine. It’s only until we find the Druid camp.”

If anything, Gwaine’s lip extended in even more of a pout. “And how far away is this Druid camp? I’ve never seen any settlements at all in this part of Camelot.”

Merlin rolled his eyes, which was a rather strange expression for an old man. “The Druids aren’t stupid, Gwaine. They have wards around their camps that make most people stay away. Their settlements can’t be seen, heard or sensed in any way, and I’ve been protecting you from their repellant spells for a while now. Without me with you, you would have a sudden urge to run away from here. Here, I’ll show you.”

His eyes glowed gold as he let go of the power he was holding in order to protect the Knight. Gwaine suddenly stared around at the forest as if it was haunted, taking a step towards the warlock as if he was looking for protection.

“There’s… there’s something out there. Something that doesn’t want us here,” he muttered, fingers wrapping around the hilt of his sword.

Merlin took hold of the magic again, and Gwaine relaxed.

“What _was_ that?” he asked.

“Just a repellant spell. Creates a sense of foreboding and fear. Most patrols skirt this part of the forest. There’s nothing important located there, so it was never much of an issue, since major roads run on both sides of the area. The Druids were smart to choose it as a settlement. And their wards are strong. You probably felt something when you patrolled the roads.”

Gwaine seemed to consider it. “Yes, a faint sense of foreboding. We never camped along here.” He contemplated the forest for a moment. “How did you know a Druid settlement was here?”

A sharp pain stabbed Merlin’s heart, and he turned away from the Knight under the pretense of picking up his bedroll. It was really to hide the haze of tears spreading across his eyes. “I… loved a druid girl once. I made it my goal to learn as much about the druids as possible after she…” He couldn’t finish the sentence.

The strangely blonde Gwaine put a hand on Merlin’s shoulder. “What happened to her?”

His shoulders tensed. “Arthur killed her.”

The Knight reeled back in shock. “What?”

“It wasn’t Arthur’s fault,” the warlock quickly defended his King. “Freya was cursed. When the sun set, she became a monster that killed as soon as thought. It wasn’t really her fault, what she became, but I can hardly blame him. He was just protecting the people of Camelot.” His elderly hands trembled slightly, and Gwaine stepped forward to put his hands on the sorcerer’s shoulders comfortingly.

The knight didn’t say anything, there wasn’t really anything he could, and Merlin got a hold of himself after a minute and pulled away to put his bedroll in the saddlebags.

“Come on,” he said, voice gruffer than usual with withheld emotion. “We’re nearly there. The sooner we get there the sooner you can have your good looks back.”

It was proof of Gwaine’s incredible vanity that they had eaten and were on their way before even a half-hour had passed.

After a few hours riding, Merlin tensed. Voices piled into his mind, many of them, all saying the same thing.

_Emrys…Emrys…You have come… Emrys…We are expecting you…Emrys?_

The warlock smiled to himself and sent a thought out ahead of him. These were his people, his kin, the ones who believed that he would fulfill his prophesied destiny despite what had happened. The people who still believed Arthur could rise up and become a stronger King than his father ever had been.

_Yes, it is I._


	11. Strength and Magic

Gwaine shot a look at his reflection in the stream. Brown hair, handsome features, winning smile. It was all there. He had a feeling he would keep finding himself looking into reflective objects, to check he really was back to normal. Being blonde and green-eyed with that ridiculously long nose had been extremely disturbing.

He finished filling his water skin and headed back to the Druid camp. He had been accepted well enough. They didn’t seem to mind that he was a Knight of Camelot, or had been, at least. He wasn’t sure if he was a knight anymore, really. After all, he had deserted his duties, and run off to aid and abet a sorcerer. No one here minded that, though. He was with Merlin, or Emrys, as they called him, and apparently that was that.

It was going to take a bit of getting used to, he admitted. Watching a child conjure glowing butterflies or having to watch Merlin talk to someone inside his head was just weird. And the whole thing about there not being a flint anywhere in the vicinity because they just started the fire with magic was bizarre as well. Everywhere he turned someone was using a spell or speaking in the language of the Old Religion. A woman singing a spell/lullaby that sent her fussing child to sleep. A girl making flowers sprout on the forest floor with just her voice. There were glowing gold eyes everywhere he looked.

He’d never thought he’d feel quite this vulnerable. As much as he knew the druids were peaceful and that he was in absolutely no danger, he was a little tense about being in a camp of people who had more power in their little finger than he had in his entire body.

The camp came into Gwaine’s view, and he looked around for Merlin, spotting the man sitting at the base of a large oak tree.

He frowned. The warlock was still sporting a long white beard and elderly features. He hadn’t removed the ageing spell. Gwaine admitted he had run off to check his reflection the second his friend removed the glamour, but he had been gone for more than enough time for the man to remove the spell on himself.

The knight walked over to the elderly man. “What’s wrong? Can’t you change back?”

Merlin jumped a bit, startled by the sudden presence of his friend. “What? Oh, no, it’s fine. I can change back… I just haven’t yet.”

There was something in the warlock’s voice that made Gwaine frown and kneel down at his side, sitting back on his heels. “Why not?”

“I…I feel better like this – different. Like I could start over as someone else. It’s easier.”

His frown deepened. “Merlin, you’re an eighty-year-old man, if you stay like this too long, you’ll die of old age.”

“I know,” Merlin said, shooting him a quick smile. “I’ll change it back eventually… just not yet.”

“Are you sure that’s safe?”

Merlin shrugged. “The druids aren’t going to let me die, Gwaine. It’ll be fine.”

The knight shrugged, deciding to let it go. If Merlin wanted to stay as an elderly man for a bit, that was fine with him. He stood, then paused. “Just… promise you’ll change back soon?”

The warlock shot him a long look, checking to see if he was serious. “Alright, I promise.”

As Gwaine walked away, he wondered what “soon” was defined as to people who dealt with hundred-year-old prophecies.

“Thousand-year-old, actually,” a voice suddenly informed him, making him jump about a mile.

He put a hand over his now rapidly beating heart and shot a glare at the middle-aged druid who had startled him.

The man held up his hands in a gesture of peace. “I apologize. You obviously aren’t used to speaking with your thoughts. Yours are very loud.” He stepped up to Gwaine, who flushed slightly. “Not to worry, most everyone blocks you out.”

Gwaine started to go over what he’d been thinking about recently and hoped it hadn’t been anything too embarrassing.

The druid smiled, as if he heard this, and the knight realized he probably did. _I am so not going to get used to this_ , he thought.

The druid’s smile widened. “You won’t have to. I do not think that Emrys will be remaining here long.”

Gwaine frowned. “But he has nowhere else to go. Surely…”

The man cut him off, seeing where his thoughts were going. “We will not send him away, but Emrys’ destiny does not involve growing older in a druid camp. He will return to his King soon enough.”

“Arthur doesn’t want him,” the knight pointed out.

The druid smiled knowingly. “Courage cannot survive long without Magic, Sir Gwaine. He will come to realize that eventually.”

Gwaine frowned. “What do you mean?”

“You met a dwarf once,” the druid pointed out, seemingly randomly.

“Yes,” the knight’s frown deepened. “But what does that have to do…”

“He called you Strength,” the man stated.

Gwaine nodded slowly, waiting for him to go on.

“He called the King ‘Courage’, and Emrys, or Merlin, as you call him, is ‘Magic’.”

The Knight finally understood. “Oh. So our greatest characteristics are what we are known as?” _Strength_ , he grinned. He wondered what Percival would think of that, since the man showed off his massive arms all the time.

“Yes, in a way. Courage is already fading without Magic at his side.”

Gwaine’s smile faded. “If he needs Merlin so much, why did he send him away?”

“The King’s reasons are his own,” the druid said, “but it is very difficult to realize that everything you thought you knew is entirely wrong.”

 _Yes, like discovering magic isn’t really evil and your father was a murdering tyrant,_ Gwaine thought.

“Uther had his own reasons as well. The Great Purge had its own purposes. We have known it would occur for many centuries.”

The knight frowned again. He was going to get really unseemly wrinkles if he kept this up. “If you knew, why didn’t you leave Camelot?”

“It was not our destiny.”

 _Druids are strange_ , Gwaine thought, and then realized the man could probably hear him.

Before he could apologize or change the subject, the druid went on, seemingly pretending the thought hadn’t occurred. “Emrys will need you as well now, Gwaine. Without Strength, he will lose sight of his destiny as well. Magic can only get one so far.”

Gwaine turned back to glance in the direction of the tree where Merlin was sitting. “What must I do?”

“Be strong,” the druid said simply, smiling. “He needs Strength more than anything right now. Without it, he will fade, and the future will fade with him.”

“Rather more important than he lets on, isn’t he?” Gwaine said, smiling wryly. He wasn’t all that surprised that Merlin was the key to the future of Camelot. The man had always elicited unusually strong emotions in the people around him. Unwavering loyalty from Gwaine and the other Knights, love from Arthur, even if the King would never admit it, and hatred from Uther and Morgana. Merlin was special, he just hadn’t known just how special until that duel.

“Even Emrys does not understand how important he is. He will come to see it, eventually. He believes Arthur is the key, that Camelot will fall without the King, but he is wrong. Camelot will fall without _him_.” He smiled at Gwaine, then turned away. “Good day.” He walked off, disappearing amongst the tents.

The knight looked after him, a little bewildered. He didn’t even know the man’s name, and the druid had just walked up to him, told him a piece of wisdom, and then walked off as if that was entirely normal. He’d been right the first time. Druids were definitely strange.


	12. Courage Fading

Percival threw his hunting knife into the center of a nearby tree trunk, just for something to do. Night had fallen, and he was on watch. The dying campfire spit the occasional glowing spark into the gathering darkness, but the sleeping knights were far enough from the smoldering wood that they wouldn’t burn. There were only three of them, Elyan, Leon and Arthur, sleeping on the ground.

It was strange, to not see the bundle of blankets that was Merlin huddled in the darkness, or hear Gwaine’s loud snores. Patrols were different, nowadays. Arthur was silent and brooding. There was no distracting banter between the King and his manservant, no inappropriate comments from Gwaine. The Knights of the Round Table were rather subdued.

Percival pulled his knife from the tree bark and shot a glance at Arthur’s unmoving form by the fire. He didn’t know what to think of Arthur anymore. When they’d first met, he’d thought the Prince was strong and courageous and fit to be a King. His obvious camaraderie with Merlin and his care – though the royal would never have admitted it – for the manservant had convinced the Knight that this royal was worthy of his loyalty. Now… he wasn’t sure.

Merlin being a sorcerer didn’t really surprise him. They had always been a little _too_ lucky when the manservant was around. And Merlin was very obviously not evil. He couldn’t have hurt someone in cold blood in his life. And if Merlin was magic and Merlin wasn’t evil, then obviously not all magic was evil. It was as simple as that, and Arthur was a dollop-head, to use the manservant’s word, if he couldn’t come to that conclusion.

Percival sheathed his hunting knife and began walking a circle around the camp to keep himself occupied. Arthur was different now. He was cold and hard, he barely laughed, he didn’t smile. His relationship with Gwen was falling apart. Elyan’s loyalty had already faded as a result of that. Gwaine had left to go with Merlin. Even Leon, who had known Arthur longer than any of them, seemed to be more distant to the King. Percival wasn’t entirely sure how he felt.

He missed Merlin. He’d actually grown rather attached to the weaker man. They all had, he thought. They protected the manservant, because he was very obviously not very good at protecting himself, falling over in battle, paying more attention to what was happening to Arthur than what was happening to himself. Merlin was the one who took their minds away from the injuries they sustained with light banter, who kept Arthur from being too much of a prat, who provided them with words of wisdom and encouraged them during battle, and who had probably kept them alive at risk of revealing his greatest secret more times than the Knights knew. Percival was beginning to wonder if he was more loyal to Merlin than he was to his King.

He knew if it came down to it and Arthur tried to kill the sorcerer, he wouldn’t stand by and let it happen, Knight’s oath and code be damned. He couldn’t imagine why Arthur had chosen to react like this. Yes, Merlin probably should have told them, and not let them find out like this, but Percival could see the manservant’s reasoning. He had probably been afraid of how Arthur would react. After all, Uther was Arthur’s father, and Uther had made his hatred of magic very obvious. And then Merlin had defeated that man, subsequently saving Arthur’s life, and despite that, the King still sent him away. He’d probably destroyed Merlin by doing that. Percival tried to imagine what it would feel like to give up one’s greatest secret to save someone’s life and then have that someone reject you because of that secret. He shuddered. It couldn’t feel good. Part of him wanted to go after Merlin and make sure he was alright, and the other part realized that he should stay and try to make sure that Arthur didn’t do anything too stupid, though he had no idea how he would manage to dissuade the King if it came to that.

And now they were out here on the very outskirts of Camelot, looking for signs of magic-user’s camps, because Arthur had decided to enact a second Great Purge.

He really wasn’t sure if Arthur deserved his loyalty anymore, and that was a dangerous thing to be realizing. Because if he felt like this, and Elyan obviously did, and Leon might be as well, then Arthur’s hold on his most trusted Knights was fading, and that meant very bad things for the future of Camelot. Even Uther had gained the trust and loyalty of his Knights. If Arthur couldn’t do that, how was he supposed to have a hold over the people of Camelot.

He shot a look at the sky, and realized that more time had passed than he had thought. He walked over to the fire and shook Elyan’s shoulder lightly, waking him for his watch. The dark-skinned Knight got up and inclined his head to Percival, who settled himself back onto his bedroll.

Night, it seemed, had a tendency to bring thoughts that would normally remain hidden to the surface. He hoped any magic-users were as far from this area of Camelot as it was possible to be.

* * *

The Knights were back on horseback the following morning. The area of forest they were in was one that Percival himself really hated patrolling. There was something creepy about it. In truth, he couldn’t see anything different about the trees, but in his mind he thought the shadows seemed darker, the brush thicker, the trees closer together, as if the forest itself was endeavouring to hide something.

He tried to pay attention to the road and ignore the prickling sensation on the back of his neck. Elyan looked nervous as well, and so did Leon. He looked at Arthur, expecting to see the usual regal look and manner that managed to convey that there was nothing in the world that could possibly faze the King.

So Percival was a bit surprised when he saw that the King looked just as nervous as the rest of them. The King didn’t notice his Knight regarding him, and Percival watched as the royal suddenly turned to the side, opening his mouth to say something, and then snapped it shut, turning stiffly to look forward again.

The Knight frowned at Arthur’s behaviour. There was no one next to the King for him to turn and say something to. _Oh_. Arthur had looked to the side Merlin usually rode on.

Pity tugged at the huge Knight’s heart. Why couldn’t Arthur just admit that he missed his manservant and give up this stupid war on magic, which made no sense anyways? He shook his head and turned to look at the forest again. There was a small grassy area on the side of the road, large enough for a couple of horses to be tethered in to graze. There were hoof prints there, so someone had obviously used this area for that purpose sometime recently.

He caught sight of something red lying in the grass and drew his horse up short. He dismounted, curious, and walked over to the brightly colored object.

The other Knights had stopped as well.

“Percival? What is it?” Arthur asked.

The muscled Knight picked up the piece of red fabric lying in the grass, heart sinking as he realized why it was so familiar.

_Merlin’s neckerchief._


	13. Through the Eyes of a Child

Merlin gave up searching through his saddlebags. His red neckerchief was nowhere to be found. He vaguely remembered taking it off after implementing the ageing spell. He’d been thinking something about how long beards and neckerchiefs didn’t go together at the time, which had gone off into a painful tangent about how Arthur would have made fun of him and called him a girl for the thought.

 _Oh well, it’s just a piece of fabric,_ he tried to convince himself. Still, he was rather attached to that particular piece of fabric. It felt odd not to be wearing it, like the feeling you get after wearing a ring all day and then you find yourself rubbing the spot where it was on your finger. He felt naked, and had an uncomfortable, and quite frankly embarrassing, longing to feel the fabric against his neck again.

He tried to shrug it off internally and stood, feeling the aching creak of his elderly joints as he did so. Maybe he should have listened to Gwaine and turned himself back. But…it felt better this way. When he looked in the mirror, he didn’t have to see himself, as Arthur did. He didn’t have to look at his familiar features and look into those eyes that accused him of betraying the man he was most loyal too. He was a different person as an old man. His heart ached painfully at this line of thought, and he promptly tried to think of something else.

He was suddenly – and mercifully – distracted by a cry within his mind.

 _Emrys!_ The voice was loud and insistent, and tinged with fear.

Merlin gave a start of surprise that his bones did _not_ thank him for and looked around. It was true that the Druids often talked to him within his mind, but normally they didn’t enter quite so forcefully, and certainly didn’t do so at the crack of dawn.

Then he was nearly bowled over by a small child, a druid girl, who ran into his knees. After he recovered his slightly precarious balance – he really needed to obtain a walking stick! No… a staff would do. The ribbing he’d get from Arthur if he found out Merlin got a walking stick… – he noticed she was sobbing uncontrollably.

Having no particular experience in dealing with crying children, he had a sudden desire to flee from the druid camp, but between his bones’ audible protest at this line of thought and the problem of the child clinging to his legs, he decided not to. Instead, he knelt down on the ground, partly to get himself to the little girl’s level and mostly to prevent himself from falling over and accidentally crushing her or something equally embarrassing.

 _What’s wrong?_ He asked gently, trying not to go stiff and pull away as the young druid threw her arms around his neck and sobbed into his beard. He patted her back a bit awkwardly.

Instead of answering, the girl just opened her mind to the warlock, and a rush of emotion assaulted him. He felt fear and trepidation and stress, all of which were feelings no child should feel. Then a memory was pushed rather forcefully into his mind, and his protective indignation was washed away as images crashed through his consciousness.

_Arthur stood in an all-too-familiar courtyard, eyes dark and brooding, lacking that teasing sparkle Merlin had grown used to. His arms were crossed across his chest, and the young King suddenly looked far more like the tyrant Uther than like his normal self. He radiated disproval and anger, but mixed in with that was something else, a hurt that seemed to have settled itself into the royal’s very soul._

_But that nightmarish countenance was not all that haunted the scene, for a massive pyre that had featured all too often in Merlin’s dreams dominated the courtyard. It was burning, flames licking at the sky with ferocity, working their way up the carefully stacked wood to the man who was tied to the stake._

_Somewhere, a child sobbed._

“ _Do you hear that, Arthur Pendragon? Do you hear the cries of the innocents you have sentenced to death?” The man in the fire screamed at the king._

_The King glared emotionlessly at the man. “Those who practice magic are never innocent.”_

The image began to fade, but before it did, Merlin heard the man’s reply: _“How wrong you are, Pendragon!”_

He jerked back to reality, reeling against the detailed image that had assaulted his mind. The child was still sobbing, her tiny hands gripping his white hair a little tighter than was comfortable.

“Shhh,” he muttered, afraid to use his mind to speak to her and inadvertently let her see the terror that was invading his heart. “It’s alright. Just a dream.”

The sobs turned to hiccups. “Just a dream?” she asked in a small voice.

“Just a dream. I promise.” He was slightly surprised at how easily the lie slipped from his lips. But then he wasn’t, because he knew why he was lying. This child was obviously a powerful Seer. These very same visions had been what drove Morgana to the edge. None as young as this should suffer that fate.

“You… you promise, Emrys?” The girl’s eyes were red and puffy, but the tears had thankfully stopped.

“I promise,” he assured her. “There is nothing for you to fear.” Guilt for the lie stung at his heart, but he pushed it down. He gently removed the girl’s hands from his hair and smiled comfortingly. “You are safe.”

The child gave him a wide-eyed look that bordered on worshipful. She cocked her head slightly to one side, apparently assured that everything was alright and able to ignore the images in her mind. “We’re safe as long as you’re here, Emrys. You’re going to save us.” She sniffled a bit and rubbed her nose, then hugged him apparently impulsively and ran off.

Merlin watched her leave, little braids flinging out behind her, and then sank onto the ground, feeling as if he’d been punched in the stomach. To see Arthur so cold… so cruel… so _like Uther_ … But even that wasn’t what affected him most. His mind recalled the image of the man on the pyre. Through the haze of smoke and flame, he couldn’t make out the doomed sorcerer’s features, but even with that, he could see that the man was elderly and had a long white beard and white hair. A shaky hand reached up to finger his elderly-looking facial hair.

He wrapped his arms tightly around his ribs, the cold, disconnected look in Arthur’s eyes haunting him, and tried to convince himself that the King he had always been loyal to didn’t want to see him dead, that Arthur wouldn’t watch so coldly as he burned. He tried to convince himself that the King would never do such a thing.

But he failed.


	14. Love and Loyalty

Percival hadn’t handed over the neckerchief, though Arthur had asked for it. The big man’s sharply spoken “Why?” had kept the piece of red fabric in the Knight’s possession, but only just.

He’d tied the scarf Merlin was so attached to around one of his biceps, and dared Arthur with his eyes to try and steal it. The King would probably burn it or something, and the Knight wasn’t going to allow that. He felt that he had part of Merlin back with him, and he had no desire to give that up.

Still, he rather wished he had never found it, because now Arthur was convinced that the area of forest that they had been travelling through – the foreboding bit with the creepy shadows – was the location of a Druid camp, and if the neckerchief was any evidence, the camp was harboring, in Arthur’s words, a dangerous sorcerer.

Percival wanted to punch the stupid man in the face. As if _Merlin_ was dangerous. Sure, to his enemies, maybe, but not to his friends. However, the way Arthur was going, he and all of Camelot were going to end up on Merlin’s enemies list, and that really didn’t sound like a good thing. Especially with the whole thing where the warlock could speak two words and have someone die in a flash of fire.

 _He_ , for one, did _not_ want to be Merlin’s enemy. Ever.

But he did want his scrawny – thought apparently not as helpless as he’d thought – little friend back, and Arthur was really beginning to grate on his already worn nerves. The Knight had never truly considered his take on magic before Merlin had been challenged. It hadn’t been his place to question the laws of Camelot, and having an opinion hadn’t meant anything. Magic was banned. People lived with it. That had changed when he learned Merlin was a sorcerer, because Merlin was most definitely not evil, and because of that, not _all_ magic could be evil.

Of course, the King couldn’t see that. _No_ , he had to be a total dollophead – Merlin had really hit the nail on the head with that nickname – and decide that Merlin was evil because he had magic and magic was evil, instead of the other way around. And the practice for “magical defensive strategy” was pointless, because really, the only way they were going to be defended from magic was if they had a magic-user on their side. But Arthur had apparently lost his brain when he’d so stupidly lost Merlin, and now they were going to return to that creepy bit of forest and try and find a Druid camp that probably wasn’t even there.

Percival was definitely angry. The big man was usually pretty non-confrontational, except for in battle, and he didn’t get involved in this sort of thing. He might occasionally offer a few words of advice, but mostly he kept quiet and waited for the issue to blow over. But right now, he _really_ wanted to punch Arthur in the jaw.

…Which, to cut the story short, is how the King found himself flat on his back, efficiently disarmed and very dazed, on the Knight’s training grounds, with Percival’s sword at his throat.

They’d been sparring, which maybe hadn’t been a good idea, considering the thoughts that had been running circles in the muscular Knight’s head.

“Nice move,” the King managed. His helmet had fallen off when he’d hit the ground as hard as he had. “I didn’t even see that…” Percival’s sword tip pressed harder against Arthur’s skin, and the King stopped talking, wincing slightly. His dazed eyes travelled upwards to see the anger in the Knight’s eyes. “Er…,” Arthur gulped, the movement making the blade press harder against his throat. A red line was forming on his skin. “What are you doing?”

“Percival!” Elyan’s voice snapped at him. The other Knights were moving closer, some holding their swords and eyeing the huge man who was pinning their King to the ground warily.

He glanced up at Elyan’s face, seeing the wariness and warning there. This was _not_ a good idea. Trying to get a hold of himself, he shot the downed man a final glare, sheathed his sword and stalked off.

Or he started to stalk off, anyways, and then Arthur’s voice stopped him.

“What’s wrong with you?” The King’s voice was angry and slightly annoyed.

That was it. Something inside of him snapped, and Percival turned around, sight blurring with the sheer fury he felt. He took two long steps and punched the idiot in the face.

King Arthur was back on the ground, cursing and clutching his nose.

“What’s wrong with _me_?” Percival shouted, his voice about the equivalent of a bear roaring, a very angry bear, who had been interrupted shortly after hibernating. A _female_ bear, whose cubs you just threatened. Needless to say, several Knights took hasty steps back, except for Elyan and Leon, who were regarding Percival with a mixture of shock and barely concealed approval. He tried to calm himself down before he did something stupid like committing high treason. His voice was slightly less loud when he spoke again. “I think the question should be: What’s wrong with _you_?” He glared at the royal. “Merlin was right. You really are a prat.”

Then he actually stalked off, leaving behind a cursing Arthur with a bloody nose and a group of stunned – and a little bit terrified, though they’d never admit it – Knights.

* * *

When Percival was called to the throne room, he wasn’t remotely surprised. He knew he would have to take responsibility for his actions. You didn’t hit the man who sat on the throne of a powerful nation in the face and get away with it. The guards disarmed him at the door.

Arthur sat on the throne, his nose still slightly red, some bruising on his usually handsome features features. The Knight was struck by how much his liege looked like his late father, with harsh, cold eyes and an emotional expression. Gone were the teasing smirks and mirthful eyes.

His steps brought him to the foot of the throne, and he stopped, forcing himself to slightly incline his head.

“I expect you have some sort of explanation for you actions today,” Arthur said.

Percival stared at him blankly for a moment. Was he really that dense? “I don’t believe I should have to explain that to you, Sire.”

The King’s lips thinned. “You have sworn loyalty to me and Camelot. You will do whatever I order you to.”

The Knight knew he should just apologize, should show respect to this King, because the man could, with a few words, have his life and liberty if he so chose. He couldn’t bring himself to do it, couldn’t bring himself to say the subservient “Yes, Sire” and go on pretending that this royal held any of his respect. “I don’t believe you want to hear my reasons, Sire,” he spoke coldly.

“I’ll be the judge of that.”

Percival drew himself to his full – and somewhat menacing – height, and stared at Arthur. “Fine. I did what I did because you don’t deserve to be King. You don’t deserve my loyalty or my love, nor the love of your people. You wear that crown and sit on the throne, and rule over us, but you are King in name only. When you Knighted me, you considered all men as equals. You didn’t care for status or blood. You fought for your kingdom’s liberty with courage and bravery. When I swore my loyalty to you as my liege, I thought you worthy of it, but you are no longer. You see evil where there is none. Where you once saw equality of blood, you now consider certain blood beneath you. And not common blood, but magic blood.” His voice didn’t waver as he continued. “You slaughter those who have no choice in what they have become, even when the evidence that they are innocent is staring you right in the face. You lost my love and loyalty the second you banished Merlin.”

His last words echoed around the suddenly very silent throne room. The King was quiet for a moment, jaw clenched, eyes flashing.

“Seize him,” he said, cold and commanding. The two guards who had disarmed him stepped forward.

Percival didn’t bother to resist as the guards took hold of his arms. If this was the price for his insubordination, he would pay it. He spoke only the truth that Arthur needed to hear.

The King stood and walked forward until he was only an arm span from the Knight. “Your _love and loyalty_ ,” the inflection he put on the words made them sound like vices instead of virtues, “have blinded you, Percival. Magic _is_ evil, and those who have it are evil. You will learn that in time.” He waved a hand in dismissal. “Take him to the dungeons.”

The guards pulled the Knight towards the throne room’s doors. As they reached them, Percival turned back, resisting for a moment to send a sad look at the blinded King. “You are wrong, Arthur,” he said, loud enough so that the words carried to the King’s ears. “Merlin deserved your love and loyalty. You still have a chance to remember how much he cared for you before you destroy that bond forever.”

The guards managed to drag him out and close the doors, but before they slammed shut, he saw the cold look in the King’s eyes, and knew that he hadn’t listened.


	15. As Dragoon

It took Percival all of five minutes to decide that he really didn’t like the dungeons. One, they were dark and dank. Two, they smelled absolutely horrible, like dead things and foul water. Three, there were rats, and he might be a big man, but he did _not_ like rats. _At all_. That bald tail combined with sharp teeth and dirt-covered coarse grey fur. He shuddered at the thought of it.

But that wasn’t even the worst of it, because he was trapped in a cell beneath the castle, and from what he heard from the far too gossipy guards the evening before, Arthur was intending to march on the Druid camp the morning after he was thrown down here, and from what light he could see coming through the barred window, dawn was approaching.

He looked down at the neckerchief in his hand and felt a hopeless feeling settle into his stomach. If Merlin was in that camp, there was absolutely nothing he could do, because he was trapped down here in this dark, dank, foul-smelling, rat-infested dungeon.

* * *

Merlin awoke with a bad feeling. And no, it was not his joints. He was beginning to get used to the dull ache that seemed to have taken up permanent residence in his skeleton. But this bad feeling was something entirely different, a sense of foreboding that made him want to run away, far away, and never come back.

That, coupled with the recentness of reliving that little Seer’s vision, did not make for a good start to his day. Maybe if he just stayed in bed, the feeling would go away, and he could go back to being a grumpy old man in peace.

That apparently wasn’t to be, because a _far_ too cheerful Gwaine poked his head into Merlin’s tent. “Good morning!”

The more elderly of the two adopted a glare that could have scared a dragon.

Gwaine frowned. “Geez, a little grumpy today, are we?”

Merlin contemplated taking back his protective spell so that the repelling spell on the Druid camp could turn the Knight into the equivalent of a frightened girl. Or turning him into a toad. Then he’d have to hop around until a princess kissed him, and he wouldn’t be able to drink any mead. _Okay, that’s a bit mean_. He filed the thought away for future reference anyways. It would be entertaining to see Gwaine as a toad, and he could always do it with a princess nearby.

The thought cheered him up a little, but only just. “I have a bad feeling,” he informed the man, sitting up in bed.

“Did you drink anything last night? Because I _always_ get a bad…”

“No, I didn’t drink anything,” the warlock interrupted exasperatedly. “Not that kind of bad feeling. A bad feeling like something bad is going to happen.”

“Well, I’m sure it doesn’t mean anything. For one thing, there’s not much time left in the day for anything bad to happen. I only said ‘Good morning’ for politeness’ sake. It’s after noon.”

 _Stupid old body,_ Merlin grumbled silently, getting up to look at the sky. The sun was definitely overhead. “Why didn’t you wake me?”

The Knight shrugged. “I was busy.”

The warlock contemplated asking what he’d been busy with and decided he didn’t want to know. Where on earth the man had managed to find alcohol in a _Druid_ camp, he had no idea, but if the smell was anything to go by, the stuff was strong. He glared at the sun like it was its fault he had slept so late and tried to shake off the sense of foreboding, which hadn’t faded a whit.

Then a sharp crack echoed through the woods, and every bird went silent. Gwaine straightened, hand going to his sword, but Merlin barely noticed, because he was staring into the eyes of a little girl with braids, who suddenly looked terrified.

_Men in armour bearing the crest of Camelot burst out of the trees. Swords flashed. Someone screamed…_

Merlin forced the child Seer’s presence out of his mind, and wasn’t remotely surprised when a moment later, men bearing red tunics emblazoned with the Pendragon crest burst out of the trees.

Gwaine cursed. Merlin cast a glamour faster than he thought was possible. If they were disguised, there was less chance the Knight would be targeted. The now-disguised man shot him an exasperated look. He did _not_ like having blonde hair and a long nose, and then drew his sword, meeting an opponent head on.

Female druids threw themselves at children. The child Seer Merlin had met was pulled out of the way and shielded by someone. None of the magic-users bore swords. They were a peaceful people, after all.

Three of the Knights were on Gwaine, who was holding them off for the time being. One of the Druids panicked and threw an offensive spell at an approaching attacker. A fireball exploded against the man’s chest, and he fell soundlessly, crashing to the ground with a massive hole burned through his armour. He didn’t move again. The Druid who cast the spell was dead a second later, a sword shoved through his chest.

A woman screamed, throwing herself in front of an older Druid as a sword descended upon them, and the Knight bearing the blade drew it up short as the two of them raised hands in surrender.

The red-clad attackers held prisoners everywhere. The Druids weren’t putting up a fight. Children hid in their kneeling mother’s arms with wide eyes. Men bodily protected their wives while the held up their hands in gestures of peace.

Merlin had escape notice, mostly hidden in the shadows of the tent. Soon, it was only Gwaine fighting, his skill as a Knight obvious in the way he was keeping so many opponents at bay.

The Seer child suddenly pushed into his mind. _A druid child, a little boy, was being held at sword point. A familiar blade – Excalibur – was held at his throat. A just as familiar voice spoke: “Lower your sword, or I’ll kill him.” The disguised Gwaine turned to face the scene, and as he did so, a red-clad warrior pushed his blade straight through the Knight’s side. The man fell._

Merlin wrenched himself out of the vision, the dying Gwaine’s screams still pulling at his thoughts, stirring a nauseous feeling in his stomach. He threw himself out of the shadows.

“ _Onbregdan_!” He yelled the spell, raising a hand towards the Knight, and Gwaine’s sword flew out of his hand and into the warlock’s own. Merlin immediately threw the blade aside as if it was poisoned and raised his empty hands into the air. “Stop,” he shouted to the somewhat stunned attackers. “Stop! We surrender!”

Cowering Druids were scattered over the clearing. A couple were dead. Gwaine was staring at him as if he’d gone mad, arm still raised as if he was still holding his sword. The Knights he’d been fighting lowered their weapons. The flash of blades stopped.

“Stop,” Merlin said, quieter. “We don’t want to fight you.”

A nearby Knight pulled off his helmet, revealing that all-too-familiar head of blonde air and those steely blue eyes. He stepped towards the warlock, no smile on his face. “I know you,” he said.

Merlin’s heart sank. He had used this disguise before, and Arthur recognized it.

“You’re Dragoon,” Arthur stated, voice cold. “You killed my father.”


	16. Hypocrisy

The chains chaffed against Merlin’s wrists. The cuffs were tight, much tighter than necessary, considering the runes that were cut into the unforgiving metal.

They were of the Ancient Religion, spelling out a spell that was binding and considerably strong, preventing the warlock from grasping is powers. The hypocrisy of it was obvious. Uther had probably used these same chains during the Great Purge to bind sorcerers and drag them to the pyre and death. Using the very magic he loathed to take magic-users captive. The anger Merlin felt at this made him want to blow something up. He’d never felt so violent about anything.

A child started crying, and he found that he was wrong. It was possible to be angrier.

He had been unceremoniously thrown into a rough wooden carriage with the rest of the Druids, all of whom were bound as he was, even the children. Their tears were worse than anything. He wanted to take the chains off them and throw the whole lot of enchanted metal into the depths of Hell. He was also nursing a desire to throw Arthur in with them, though he was fighting it. Part of him couldn’t believe Arthur could truly be this cruel, but the other part was covered in a haze of red fury that made it hard to think rationally.

The dense idiot King of Prat-ness needed to wake up and realize that he, Merlin, was not dangerous, that these innocent Druids meant absolutely no harm and that he was making a horribly wrong decision, for quite a few reasons. One, Merlin was pretty sure he was going to die, and that was bad, because then Arthur would have no one to protect him. Two, this second Great Purge was going to make magic-users very angry, and without Merlin to protect him, Arthur was going to die. And three, magic wasn’t evil, dammit!

He made another desperate internal grab, one of many, and probably not the last, and supressed an urge to scream or cry as his magic evaded him once more. He felt as if a wall had been set up in his mind, preventing him from reaching his powers. He could feel them, so closely within his reach, and yet so far away. He felt the loss keenly, as keenly as if it had been a limb that had been removed from him. It _hurt_. And Arthur had caused it. He was in pain, betrayed, and alone.

 _Arthur doesn’t know it’s you he’s holding captive,_ the rational part of Merlin’s mind tried to tell him.

But the other part, the louder part, just said: _It hurts. Please, it hurts…_

* * *

Gwaine stared across the wagon bed at his elderly-looking friend. He had been lucky enough to be thrown in the same carriage as Merlin, but he was separated from him by quite a few Druids, and restrained by these stupid chains at the same time.

The chains weren’t exactly necessary, seeing as he didn’t have magic, but the restraining bit had probably been a good move on Arthur’s part. It would be hard for him to swing a sword with his arms chained together. But he was glad that the enchanted cuffs weren’t having an effect on him, considering the looks he saw in some of the Druids eyes. A lot of them looked like they were in pain.

But that was nothing compared to what Merlin looked like. The young-turned-old warlock looked like he was being _tortured._

“What’s wrong with him?” Gwaine hissed, his heart reaching out to his friend.

A druid man next to him, who was leaning very heavily against the wagon’s wooden side, turned to look at the disguised knight with glazed eyes. “The enchantment on the chain removes us from our magic.”

Gwaine frowned at him. “But… it’s just magic. It shouldn’t _hurt_.”

The druid’s lips quirked in a barely-there smile. “Magic isn’t just some random skill, Sir Gwaine. Having it removed from me is about the equivalent of you having your sword hand chopped off.”

The knight stared across at Merlin. The warlock’s eyes were unseeing. He didn’t seem aware of what was around him. “Why is he so much worse?”

“I _have_ magic. Emrys is different. He _is_ magic. He hasn’t just been separated from something that is _part of_ him, he’s been separated from his very self. I’m not sure how long he can survive that.”

Gwaine looked at the tortured expression on Merlin’s face, trying to imagine what he could possibly be feeling that would make him look like that. He wanted to _kill_ Arthur. No one deserved to hurt like that, and definitely not Merlin.

“I think,” the druid murmured to him, “that our warlock needs Strength.”

Gwaine huffed. “Well, he bloody well doesn’t look very strong right now. How is he supposed to…”

The druid raised an eyebrow, giving an uncanny impression of Gaius.

 _OH! Oh, right. Strength, as in me._ “Ah. Right.”

The druid went back to looking blankly into space and breathing carefully.

Gwaine stared helplessly across the wagon at the tortured-looking warlock he’d come to love like a brother. It was hard to think of it that way, since his own blood brother was as much of an evil old toad as his sister, but he felt he understood the supposed brother bond much more with Merlin. He felt protective, and he cared about what the warlock thought, and he hated, absolutely _hated_ , seeing Merlin in pain. _Our warlock needs Strength_.

The currently blonde man set his jaw and cast the space between him and Merlin an accusing glare, as if it was the air’s fault for that space existing in the first place. _Right,_ he thought. _I am a Knight of Camelot. A dwarf told me my name is Strength._ _I can damn well make it across a wagon to sit by Merlin._

And no stupid chain with stupid magic engravings was going to stop him, thank you very much. Nor was the crowd of pain-dazed Druids that separated him and the warlock. Or the fact he was pining for a glass of mead, either.

* * *

Twenty very long, very tiring minutes later, Gwaine maneuvered himself into position beside his warlock friend. His arms ached from physically moving the Druids who had been in his way, and the metal cuffs had left bruises on his arms, the edges actually having cut through his skin. Thin trickles of blood decorated his wrists. The Druids hadn’t resisted him, but they certainly hadn’t been able to help, and he hadn’t been able to just bowl them all aside in one fell swoop, because they were being watched by guards.

He’d had to move excruciatingly slowly, at points bearing a person’s entire weight upon his metal-cuffed wrists while he waited for a guard’s gaze to drop. Thus, the bruising and blood, and the aching.

At the moment, he didn’t care, because he was triumphantly on the other side of the wagon, and his pain meant little, because Merlin was more important.

The warlock seemed to have lost whatever internal battle he was fighting, because he was leaning heavily against the wooden side of the cart, breathing ragged, with his eyes closed. Gwaine shifted so most of his friend’s weight was against him, Merlin’s head lolling on his shoulder, and – as best as he could with his arms chained – pulled the white-bearded man against his chest.

“Merlin,” he murmured, quietly. “I’ve never been all that good at inspirational speeches, but whatever that spell is, you need to fight it. I know you’re a lot stronger than you look. You’ve survived poison and swords and who knows what else, and you might look really old and wrinkled and frankly ugly right now, but you’re too young to die, alright?”

The warlock didn’t answer him, though his eyelashes did flutter slightly. Gwaine took that as a good sign.

“I know it probably seems easier just to let go. I can see how much pain you’re in, but I can feel that it isn’t your time yet, okay? You’ve got tons of things to do. You’ve got Kings to beat up and dragons to order around, and you still need to introduce me to Kilgharrah. You’ll meet some lovely young girl and have to protect her honor from me, and I haven’t managed to get you properly drunk yet, so you’re just not allowed to die. Also, what about your lovely mother? You’re going to leave her all alone on this earth? Just think, I could go back to Ealdor and without you to protect her I could do anything I want! And you can’t have that, can you?”

Merlin’s lips twitched. “Go near my mother, you bastard, and I’ll curse you from my grave.”

Gwaine grinned, relieved that he’d goaded his friend enough to get him to reply. “You’re not going to die for a long time yet, Mer, so I think I’m pretty safe.”

The ex-manservant cracked an eye open. The normally sparkling blue irises were clouded by pain. “Did you just call me ‘Mer’?”

“What? I thought we were close enough to use nicknames!” He attempted to look offended at this perceived slight to their friendship.

“Gwaine,” Merlin said. “That’s not fair. Your name is only one syllable. I can’t do anything with it.”

The knight grinned. “That’s one of the benefits of being me.”

“I can always call you ‘Al,’” Merlin pointed out.

Gwaine frowned. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

“Yes, it does, actually,” the warlock informed him. “You’re a total alcoholic, and ‘Al’ is short for that.”

“You can’t call me ‘Al,’” the Knight insisted.

“But it’s true,” Merlin murmured, eyes closing again. He still looked tortured. Gwaine wanted to smash the chains around his wrists into a million pieces.

The warlock’s breathing grew ragged again, and the pained expression on his face managed to get even more so without their banter distracting him. “Hurts,” he murmured, so quiet that it was almost a whimper.

Gwaine set his teeth as he considered the last thing he could say to Merlin to make him fight this. Every part of him wanted to never say these words, to keep them holed up inside him. He didn’t want Merlin to ever be in the King of Camelot’s service again. But desperate times called for desperate measures. “You have to fight it, Mer,” he ordered the warlock. “And not just for me.” He hesitated, then forged on. “But for… Arthur.” He had to grind the name out from between his teeth. “You’ve always been the one who could set him straight when he was wrong. He listens to you. It might not seem like it, but he always trusted you more than he ever trusted anyone else, even Gwen.”

“Apparently not enough,” Merlin said, voice pained.

“He made a mistake,” Gwaine managed. He couldn’t believe he was actually _defending_ the jerk. “He reacted without considering the consequences, and now he doesn’t know how to take them back. He’s always cared about his damn pride too much. You know that.”

The nearly-unconscious warlock didn’t answer.

“You need to be the one to set him straight. You need to fight this so that you can. You told me it’s your destiny to bring magic back to Camelot, with Arthur. You can’t very well do that if you’re dead, my friend. He needs you, even if he’s too much of a prat to admit it. He reacted without thinking and now he’s just letting it carry on. He needs you back to advise him.”

“But what if you’re wrong?” Merlin’s voice was small. “What if he really does hate me and want to see me dead?”

The Knight begged every god he’d ever heard of that his words weren’t going to end up being a lie. Then again, he’d lie for as long as he’d have to if it meant Merlin fought this spell and stayed alive long enough for Gwaine to get him out of these chains. “Arthur doesn’t hate you, Mer. You’ve always been his friend. You saved his life, and he’s saved yours. You’re closer than husband and wife half the time. You should see those stupid goo-goo eyes you make at each other when you see that you’re both safe.”

Merlin grimaced. “S’not like that,” he said.

“Doesn’t matter. Fact is, Arthur cares about you, and you need to set the prat straight and fulfil your destiny, so you need to fight this spell, okay?”

The warlock graced him with a half-smile. “Okay,” he said. “For Arthur.”

A pain hit Gwaine’s heart. Merlin would fight for Arthur, but not for him, and not even for his mother. It took _Arthur_ , who had betrayed him and banished him, to make him fight to live. “Good. Everything’s going to be alright,” he assured him.

And if he was wrong and Arthur did want to kill Merlin, well, he was going to hunt down the stupid royal and put a sword through him, and crown the warlock King, because Merlin deserved it a lot more than Arthur did.


	17. What If?

Arthur stared at the canopy that was the roof of his tent. He was beginning to be able to make out the outlines of shadows on the fabric, which meant that the sun was rising. He hadn’t slept at all. As he’d tried to fall asleep, all he’d been able to hear were the soft sniffles and cries of Druid children, the sound of soft murmuring, perhaps parents comforting those same children, or each other.

 _What kind of monster am I?_ He’d pressed down the guilt, but he couldn’t now, in the shadows of dawn, hide the truth from himself. He was hurting children. _Children!_

 _They have magic_ , the voice in his head that sounded like his father’s reminded him.

 _But they didn’t even_ try _to fight back_ , another voice countered, the one that sounded like… he couldn’t say the man’s name.

He didn’t understand. They truly hadn’t fought. They had magic, they could have probably defeated Arthur and his Knights. He’d realized that from the damage done to some of his warriors. Some of the Druids had panicked and sent spells out, killing and injuring people. They could have won easily, if those instinctual protective magic spells were anything to go by, but they hadn’t. They’d just… surrendered.

He didn’t understand. Confusion roiled in his heart. It had all made sense. Magic was evil, and he’d seen that in every sorcerer he’d ever met – well, except… _him_ – when they attacked Camelot or him or his father. They had cast powerful curses and killed people to get what they wanted. But the Druids had just accepted their chains. And they hadn’t even done so in defeat, with the idea that there was no point in fighting. No, they had accepted the magic chains as if they’d _foreseen_ that they were to be placed in them, and they weren’t going to fight it.

As if it was destiny.

And Dragoon, that man who had tried to heal his father… He couldn’t even bring himself to be properly angry. He had assumed that the sorcerer had killed his father, but he still remembered the old man’s face contorting with horror as the spell seemed to work… and then failed. His eyes had been so familiar, and Arthur had seen the emotion in them, the complete and utter confusion. He wasn’t sure anyone could act so well as that. The emotions had been real, he was sure, even if maybe they were for reasons he didn’t know. But he still didn’t understand.

He needed to decide what to do. He had intended to take the lot of them back to Camelot and preform a public execution as a lesson. But now, as he lay here, he didn’t know what to do.

 _Why am I doing this? Even father left the Druids alone. They are a peaceful people, even if they have magic._ He was so confused. They hadn’t fought him. They hadn’t tried to fight, or escape, or anything. They’d just accepted it. He had expected to feel triumphant, to feel glad that he’d caught them and won the victory. Instead, he just felt cold and empty. These people were innocent, except maybe Dragoon, and he was leading them to a pyre. The majority of them had done nothing wrong, and yet he was punishing them.

 _But for what, Arthur? What have they done wrong?_ The voice was so familiar, the voice that had counselled him with wisdom, the voice that had encourage him when he had need, the voice that had always been there.

 _They have magic,_ his father’s voice told him.

But they hadn’t used that magic to hurt anyone. The Druids were peaceful healers. They had no quarrel with Camelot and they stayed in their secluded camps and kept to themselves. Magic, his father had always said, was evil. But these magic-users didn’t seem evil at _all_. And if they weren’t evil… then how could all magic be evil?

And what if he had been wrong? What if he had made the biggest mistake of his life just because he’d never stopped to consider the alternative?

What if he had sent away the only person who had always been truly loyal to him because he was prejudiced?

Pain stabbed at his heart. He had refused to think about that, to think about him. He felt betrayed, and hurt. Mer… the name cut off halfway in his mind. He hadn’t thought it in so long. _Merlin_ , he thought firmly. _If magic isn’t evil, what if I sent Merlin away for no reason at all? What if father was wrong?_

But if that was true, why hadn’t Merlin come back? Why had he just left and not come and tried to set Arthur straight? Merlin always did that. He came even when he was ordered to stay away. He spoke even when he was told to be silent. He _never_ did as he was told. But this time, he’d just obeyed and left.

Arthur remembered the pain in the warlock’s eyes, the way all the energy had seemed to go out of him, the way he’d seemed to resign himself to this fate, as if he’d expected it all along. As if he’d known Arthur would never accept him as he truly was.

The pain in his heart intensified. Merlin hadn’t come back. What if he, Arthur, had been the one who had turned him away? What if his rejection ended up being what turned Merlin evil? Morgana had seemed so innocent, until she realized that Uther would never accept her kind.

And these Druids, when faced with death, still lashed out with magic and killed. Their magic was dangerous and deadly, even if they had surrendered instead of using it.

He was so confused. He was King; he needed to make a decision. Either he brought these Druids back to Camelot and made a public example of them, to show that magic was not welcome in his kingdom, or he set them free.

Memories assaulted him. He could see Morgana, and the dragon, the many sorcerers who had attacked Camelot, the woman who had tried to kill him, that first time he’d been saved by Merlin, the army of skeletons, the Cup of Life filled with blood, a troll for his stepmother, a goblin possessing Gaius, Gwen’s father being killed… So many times magic had been at the core of the problem, destroying and corrupting and _evil_.

Then a different memory rose in his mind. Merlin, throwing himself forward to shield Arthur, magic blossoming so the fireball shattered. Merlin, voice steady and deadly and so… _not_ -Merlin, stalking towards the man who had just tried to kill him, saying: “ _You should not have done that._ ” And fire, and shock, and relief that Merlin was alive, and then the anger, and betrayal, washing over him.

Magic used to destroy. Magic used to protect. But so many more times when destruction was its main goal.

Arthur stared at the tent roof above him as if it could make this decision for him. Either magic was evil or it was not. Either Merlin was his enemy or his friend. Either he gave death and punishment or mercy and freedom.

His father, dying. Morgana, stealing his throne. The dragon, attacking Camelot. A huge winged black cat, killing every night. A witch’s knife. Snakes coming out of a shield. His father fighting a wraith. So many memories.

And Merlin, unassuming and clumsy and unable to handle a sword, giving up his greatest secret to protect him, only to be sent away.

What if he was wrong? What if magic didn’t corrupt the soul and make the user evil? What if Merlin would still be – well – _Merlin_ and not succumb to it? What if he was wrong and magic didn’t need to be destroyed like his father had thought?

But worse, what if he was right? What if he made the wrong decision and released these magic-users back into Camelot, so they could continue to use their power to destroy lives? What if he let them go, only to find that Gwen or someone else he loved died because of it?

In the end, it didn’t matter. Even if magic wasn’t evil, it was dangerous, and even one person who wanted to use it for evil could destroy him, as so many had tried in the past.

He pushed away the doubt in his heart and replaced it with resolve. Magic had no place in Camelot, and he was going to make sure that people knew that.

He would make an example of them, starting with the man who had killed his father.


	18. No Fate But What We Make

Arthur had unchained the children, the youngest ones, and Merlin was unable to stop the little flare of hope that lit up his heart at this act of compassion. Maybe Arthur wasn’t as far gone as he looked, with those cold eyes that belonged more in the face the tyrant Uther.

Of course, logically, the children posed no real threat to Arthur, as they were far too young to have developed their magic abilities beyond what came naturally at that young age – emotionally related little explosions of magic. And they were all too afraid to try to preform spells anyways, huddling to their weakened parents and guardians, staring at them with wide eyes and communicating with their minds, though the adults couldn’t answer with more than gentle embraces and murmured comfort.

Merlin felt a bit like a helpless child himself, leaning against Gwaine and struggling not to lose consciousness. His chains were exactly as they had been, still separating him from his magic. He’d never imagined it would hurt this much. Even the language of the dragons wouldn’t come to his lips. He knew; he’d tried.

He was beginning to associate the very glint of the metal around his wrists as being malicious, almost convinced that the cuffs were a sentient being keeping him from his magic with evil intent.

Because of his current state of mind, or lack thereof, he was glad that Arthur had kept him in these chains. _I’m going insane,_ he thought. _I am a powerful warlock who can perform spells great enough to make castles crumble, and I am going insane._ This wasn’t one of the better situations he’d encountered since he’d come to Camelot. At least all the other times he’d been about to die he’d been able to use magic.

Now he was being held captive by the one man he was more loyal to than any other, and he was apparently losing his mind. The restraints, whatever pain they caused, were probably a good idea. That didn’t, however, stop him from hating the metal chains with a passion.

Gwaine squeezed his shoulder in a reassuring way, letting him know that he wasn’t alone, and he pushed back the growing darkness at the edges of his mind. He didn’t know how much longer he could keep this up.

“How far are we from Camelot?” he rasped, and was promptly horrified at the way his voice sounded under the combination of age and pain.

“A few hours,” Gwaine answered, voice filled with tension.

Relief swept through Merlin, a sensation he never would have been able to explain to the Knight, even if the man had been able to decipher the warlock’s emotions in his now-aged face. Only a few hours, and he’d be released from this infernal torture, one way or another. He found that death didn’t sound like all that bad of an option.

 _You are definitely going insane_ , he chided himself, finding it odd that his thought-voice was so much younger sounding than his real voice, _There is_ nothing _relieving about being burnt at the stake._

“Hang in there,” Gwaine murmured. “We’ll figure something out. We will.”

Merlin thought he sounded more as if he was reassuring himself than his warlock friend, but he nodded tiredly as if he believed him anyways.

It was late afternoon, the sun taking its downward curve towards the horizon. If Gwaine was right, they’d reach Camelot before nightfall. He wondered if Arthur would execute him right away, or if he’d wait until morning. He stopped the thought in its tracks, his entire being wincing away from the idea of being trapped in these chains for another night. His breathing quickened, and he sagged against Gwaine’s shoulder.

“Merlin!” The Knight hissed, shaking him gently. “Merlin, don’t do this to me. You’ve got to fight it.”

The warlock grinned somewhat maniacally, trying not to hyperventilate and knowing he looked like a complete madman. He was currently thinking about how, if he survived, he would never let Gwaine live down the fact that he’d been _blonde_.

 _Oh God, I am definitely losing my mind,_ he thought hysterically.

“Don’t know… how much lon..longer I can keep this up,” he managed, trying to get his breathing back to normal.

Gwaine looked completely helpless as he helped the pain-drunk warlock sit up again. “We need to get you out of these chains.”

A small gasp drew Merlin’s attention, and he glanced towards the noise, and found his gaze locked with that of a little girl. She stared at him, wide-eyed, and then her eyes flashed the unnatural gold of magic.

_A disguised Gwaine threw himself out of the cart, smashing a Knight in the head with the metal cuff of the chains around his wrist. He sprinted underneath a lunge of a blade, and right to Arthur’s horse, where he ripped Excalibur from the King’s saddle._

_The horse on which Arthur rode reared, sending the royal tumbling to the ground, and the group of warriors exploded into chaos._

_Even with his hands chained, Gwaine fought single-mindedly back to the cart._

_Excalibur arched down, and the shining blade hit the chain on Merlin’s wrists. The restraints shattered in a flash of light, pieces of metal raining down on the wooden floor of the wagon. Then his own blue eyes flashed gold, and it was as if time slowed down. Everything went completely still, from the leaves of the trees blowing in the wind, to the warriors bearing down on Gwaine and the warlock._

_And then the world exploded, a massive bubble of energy erupting from Merlin. Gwaine was knocked aside, Excalibur flying from his grip. The chains on the Druids shattered. The Knights were knocked off their feet, weapons flying in all directions._

_Arthur was on his feet, a borrowed blade in hand, and then the wave of magic hit him, and he was flying backwards, and falling, falling as the energy hit him in chest, falling without even trying to minimize the damage, falling as his life left his body, and he crashed to the ground, dead._

Merlin tore his gaze away from the little Seer girl’s, shaking as if he was having a seizure, shock ripping through his elderly frame.

Gwaine wrapped his arms around the warlock as if he was trying to hold him together. “Merlin! Merlin, what’s wrong? Don’t worry, I’m going to get you out of here.” His hands fell on the manacles.

Merlin tore his hands from the Knight’s fingers. “No!” His voice was far too loud. “No,” he said, more quietly. “You can’t.”

“Why not?” the man hissed. “Merlin, I’m not going to let you go through this. I can see what it’s doing to you.”

“No,” Merlin answered fiercely. “If you take these chains off me, I’m going to kill Arthur.”

Gwaine froze. “What?” His voice was incredulous. “Merlin, you’d never kill Arthur, no matter how much of a prat he is.”

“I will. If you take these chains off, I won’t be able to control it. I’ll kill him.”

“Merlin,” the Knight spoke slowly, as if he was explaining something to a child. “You can’t _know_ that.”

“Yes, I can,” the warlock spoke just as slowly. “There’s a Seer girl in this cart. She showed me. _Leave the chains._ “

Gwaine was quiet for a moment. Then, “Merlin, it doesn’t make sense. You would never kill Arthur. You…” the Knight seemed to search for the word, “ _love_ him.”

“Then explain to me exactly why, when I’ve been reaching for magic for the past few hours, I’ve been voicing spells that cause death?”

The Knight didn’t answer, so the warlock continued. “I started just saying spells that would break the chains, but it’s changed. I can’t control it.” His voice was a little more hysterical when he spoke again. “I think I’m losing my mind.”

“Fine,” Gwaine conceded. “Fine, I won’t take the chains off, though apparently there’s some way I could do it and you’ve seen it. But you aren’t going to kill Arthur, Merlin.”

He thought back to the other vision the child had shown him, with the obscure-faced bearded man telling Arthur he was hurting innocents, the anger that had been in that voice. He wondered if that was going to be him, yelling those things. He’d always thought his last words to Arthur would be telling him he’d one day be a great King. “Then _why_ do I keep seeing myself doing and saying things to him that I would never have thought I would?”

“The future isn’t set in stone,” Gwaine insisted. “There is no fate save what we make ourselves. You would never kill Arthur. You’re purposely wearing these infernal chains, apparently, so you don’t hurt him. I can’t see you doing anything to harm him, no matter what he deserves.”

The warlock smiled slightly, partly in relief that the chains were going to remain, keeping him from hurting Arthur, even if the chains were hurting him. “When did you get so wise?”

“I hung around with you.” He lightly tapped the side of Merlin’s head with his fist. “And I’m not going to let you lose your mind. We’re going to keep talking, right to the end, alright?”

He grasped at anything that would distract him from thinking up more death-spells to send at his King. “About what?”

“How about you tell me about all the times you’ve saved the royal prat’s life.”

Merlin frowned. That was going to take a lot longer than the time it would take to reach Camelot.


	19. Camelot Approaches

Elyan watched the towers of Camelot rise over the trees, like a stone crown set upon the forest’s head. Arthur hadn’t once looked back at the Druids, or ridden beside the carts either. The King avoided the prisoners as if they were one of Gaius’s more potent-tasting remedies, riding at the front of the group with his gaze fixed firmly on the road.

Elyan wondered if he felt guilty. _Or perhaps they remind him of Merlin_ , he thought. He glanced at the prisoners in the cart.

Chained druids leaned against each other, wearily keeping their eyes open. Some of the children cried. A man and woman sat side by side, fingers intertwined as best as they could be with their wrists chained together. The group of magic-users looked for all the world like a group of poor commoners, and nothing like the dangerous sorcerers Uther always raved about when he’d been alive.

Even the old sorcerer who had put that love spell on Gwen – Arthur had called him Dragoon – was leaning on another prisoner’s shoulder, a man with blonde hair, the one who’d actually fought back at the Druid camp. The sorcerer looked completely harmless, feeble and elderly, someone the Knight would have felt honour-bound to protect. But he had watched as the chains were put on the old man’s wrists, could see the pain in the man’s eyes now, and he felt guilty. Some part of him wanted to go over there and break the chains apart. These were harmless human beings that _they_ , the Knights of Camelot, had attacked. It didn’t seem right, that they had made these unassuming Druids so weakened.

Dragoon didn’t look all that weakened at the moment, though. Yes, the elderly man was leaning on his companion’s shoulder and looked to be pained and weary, but he seemed to be telling a very interesting story. Several of the Druid children had shifted so that they were close to the old man’s knees, and the blonde fighter was listening with rapt attention.

 _Must be some story,_ Elyan mused. He was sure that just this morning the old sorcerer had looked half dead, collapsed onto the blonde’s shoulder. He cast a calculating look over the white-bearded man, noting the way he slumped, not supporting his own body weight. There was pain in his eyes, but he made weak movement with his hands as he spoke despite it. He looked positively vibrant, compared to some of the half-conscious looking Druids. The blonde didn’t look at all affected, but maybe he didn’t have magic, the chains were only supposed to affect sorcerers. That would explain why he’d fought with a sword and not spells. They both seemed… stronger than the others, resisting the power of the chains. But why resist? They were nearly reaching Camelot. Soon, they’d either be banished or dead and they couldn’t do anything about it.

 _Curious,_ he thought, unconsciously guiding his horse closer to the prisoner’s wagon.

He had seen the sorcerer Dragoon in the woods. The old man had taken out four of Arthur’s best knights without much of a fuss. In fact, he’d done it with ease. But he’d submitted to being captured when he probably could have fought them off single-handedly with magic, if that one encounter was anything to judge by. And with the help of the magic-using Druids, he would have been unstoppable. He could have defeated Arthur’s forces without breaking a sweat.

But the old man was here, had allowed him to be put in chains, which were quite obviously still hurting him, however much he was resisting them. His eyes told the truth.

He stared at the sorcerer as if he was a puzzle he could put together with his eyes. Dragoon didn’t seem to notice, continuing to tell whatever riveting story he had been, Druid children listening with wide-eyed attention. The man’s robes were worn, but not tattered. For a man who lived in the outdoors in a Druid camp, his skin was rather unnaturally pale, nearly matching the white of his hair. The only real color in the man’s face was in his eyes, which were deep blue.

And those eyes, he was sure he’d seen them in someone else’s face. And the way the man kept moving his hands, gesturing despite the weight of the chains on his wrists, all mannerisms that were somehow familiar.

_Why are they familiar?_

He edged his horse closer, trying to hear what the prisoner was saying.

“And then Arthur stabbed the Lamia, killing it from behind, and he didn’t even _notice_ that I was lying on the ground, because he was too busy snuggling Gwen!”

Elyan froze as one of the Druid children giggled. _What?_ He thought, stunned.

The elderly man smiled. It twisted his face oddly. “And later, he has the nerve to ask me if I was ashamed to be saved by a woman, while he goes and tells Gwen that she ‘has the courage of a Knight of Camelot!’”

The blonde man the sorcerer was leaning against snickered. “Really? Arthur said that?”

“Yes, and later he goes and Knights you and Elyan and Leon and Percival, but no, I’m still just a manservant!”

The blonde man clapped the elderly man lightly on the shoulder. “Ah, my old friend, you should be a Knight, you’d be much better than the rest of us, considering how many times you’ve saved us all.”

“I’ve saved his royal backside more times than I can count,” the old man grumbled.

 _There’s only one person who would say that_ , Elyan realized. It suddenly all made sense. Those eyes, he knew them! And the way he talked, so disrespectful but with an undertone of deep affection.

_That’s Merlin._

The trees were getting sparser, the towers of Camelot and the surrounding skyline easily visible through the scarce covering of branches. They were drawing near to the city, the city where Arthur was intending to publicly execute the man he thought was the escaped sorcerer, Dragoon. Except that wasn’t Dragoon, well it was. Dragoon was apparently a disguise Merlin had used to protect Arthur using magic.

 _If Arthur kills Merlin…_ He tried to imagine it. Arthur couldn’t want that. The King might have banished Merlin, sent him away, but even then, that was going against all the laws that Uther had set. Merlin should have died right then, but Arthur hadn’t executed him. The royal might be being a complete prat and be doing stupid things because he wasn’t listening to Gwen and had sent his most trusted advisor away, but if he killed Merlin, he’d never forgive himself.

He glanced at the old man, realizing that the blonde man beside him was probably Gwaine, disguised by magic. It made sense. The blonde man’s knight-like grace when he’d attacked with his sword. The old man’s refusal to fight back with the magic he so obviously had in abundance. The way Merlin was not succumbing to the chains, the manservant had always been more courageous than the rest of them combined, even if Arthur never saw it, or pretended he didn’t, at least.

The last of the trees fell behind him. It was less than an hour until they reached the gates of the city.

 _What do I do?_ He glanced around, instinctively looking for Percival, but finding Leon instead. Leon was still loyal to Arthur, and he’d never been that close to Merlin, not like the rest of them, and Lancelot was dead, for good this time, apparently, and Gwaine was a prisoner. Percival was in the dungeons for trying to clue Arthur in to the truth.

 _What happened to us?_ He wondered. The Knights of Camelot, brought to ruin, their courageous royal, brought down to the level of his tyrant father. He’d never realized how much Merlin had held them together.

 _Arthur, you idiot, can’t you see how much you need him?_ _Even Gwen’s betrayal didn’t affect you like this._ He stared at the back of his King’s head, then glanced at the approaching walls of the city that used to seem so welcoming when he came back from patrols.

It didn’t now. He wanted to grab the disguised Merlin and run. But he couldn’t. He’d be dead before he got his friend out of the cart.

_Oh God, what am I going to do?_


	20. The Depth of Darkness

If the carts had been bad, the dungeons of Camelot were a hundred times worse. Once the sun set, the darkness became so black that one might as well be submerged in a tank of obsidian-colored ink, so deep were the shadows. Sounds were amplified by enfold, echoing on the stone walls, and the air was dank and humid, but cold, so that each breath seemed to take a little more warmth from your body. Rats scampered around on the edges of the cells, unseen and lurking, the sound of their passage only adding to the shivers running through Merlin’s body.

The warlock attempted to keep himself awake, if only for Gwaine’s sake, since the Knight kept making non-consequential conversation, talking like he always did when he was nervous and trying not to seem like he was. It was his way of coping, and Merlin wasn’t going to interfere. But he wanted nothing more than to close his eyes and lose consciousness, anything to escape this combination of magic-induced pain and impenetrable blackness.

So when a flaming light illuminated the cell, shot through with angry red and rimmed with strange black fire, he wasn’t all that surprised that his first feeling was one of complete relief, despite the unwelcome familiar face that the sudden light fell upon.

Apparently not even Morgana could make him feel as horrible as these chains and imprisonment did.

Gwaine wasn’t at all relieved, leaping to his feet almost instantaneously, despite his chained wrists, moving towards the evil witch with violence in his eyes.

“ _Ræpling eac stán_ ,” Morgana spoke in the Ancient Language carelessly, barely glancing in the direction of the approaching Knight as her light blue-green eyes turned to glowing amber. The stone floor of the cell sprung to life, tendrils of rock wrapping around Gwaine’s ankles like stone vines.

“What are you doing here?” Gwaine growled, struggling against the restraints.

“That is none of your concern.” Morgana dismissed him with a wave of her hand, and the Knight was suddenly gagged by a piece of cloth that appeared out of nowhere, just as the stone tendrils grew higher and trapped his arms to his sides.

“Stop it,” Merlin told her, trying to keep the panic from his voice. “You’ll kill him!”

Morgana smirked, but her eyes stopped glowing gold, and the stone froze, returning to its normal unmoving state. The Knight’s chest was still constricted, but Merlin noted with relief that he could still breathe.

“Nice to see you have some loyalty left,” Morgana said, throwing a distasteful look at Gwaine. “Even if it isn’t to your own kind.” She took a step towards the elderly Merlin, who didn’t even have the strength to stand and face her. “I had to come and see it myself, the great Emrys, my _doom_ ,” her voice dripped with sarcasm, “brought low by the mighty Arthur Pendragon.”

She brought a manicured fingernail up to comb through Merlin’s long white beard. “I wonder if my precious brother knows that it wasn’t you who planted the love spell under his pillow. It was me, and you’re the one who saved his precious Guinevere’s life.” She smirked again. “And it was me who killed Uther. I reversed your healing magic and increased its power by ten-fold. The tyrant didn’t stand a chance. But Arthur doesn’t know that, does he, and he’s going to execute you, for things _I_ did, unwittingly aiding me and ridding himself of one of his greatest allies.”

She took a step back, smiling contentedly. Merlin stared at her happy expression, sickened by the fact that in any other situation, that smile would be pleasant. But on her face, in the depths of the dungeon, for these reasons, it was anything but. “Arthur is a good man,” he insisted, glaring at her.

“Ah, such loyalty,” she simpered. “And Arthur’s never going to see it.”

She hit a nerve with that statement, and Merlin physically flinched away. Arthur never _did_ see it. He was always too busy seeing the foolish servant to notice the man who had been his friend through thick and thin, despite it all.

The beautiful Seer laughed, the sound trilling in the stone cell. For the first time, Merlin noticed that Gwaine wasn’t the only one bound by magic in the cell. The Druids, pale-faced in the glow of the fiery magic light, were watching the scene with wide eyes, encased with stone as Gwaine was, though most were restricted by only their ankles.

“The only thing that would make this better is if you would kill Arthur for me and clear the way to my throne,” Morgana smiled beatifically.

Merlin froze, staring at her. He would not kill Arthur. He _would not_ kill Arthur.

“In fact,” the female Pendragon sneered. “I believe that’s exactly what’s going to happen.”

“No,” Merlin croaked, trying to move away from her. His back hit the stone wall of the cell. He was trapped.

“It’s just perfect,” Morgana smiled. “You’re already far too much trouble than you’re worth. You’re going to be in Arthur’s presence tomorrow, for your execution, and you’re a powerful sorcerer. I can possess you, and before you know it, Arthur will be dead, I will be Queen, and you, Emrys, will be completely in my control.”

“No,” Merlin protested, but his voice was weak. There was nothing he could do. He reached for his magic, but it wasn’t there, still trapped behind that inflexible barrier in his mind.

Gwaine struggled uselessly against his stone bonds as Morgana grabbed Merlin’s wrist, gripping the point just below the chains and applying pressure on the bruises there, so that the weakened warlock hissed with pain, staring at her with wide fear-filled eyes.

“ _Álynian se gást béon mín sylfre_ ,” Morgana hissed, eyes glowing gold.

It felt like a massive weight crashed into Merlin’s chest, pushing through his skin and deep inside him, and a coldness seemed to spread from his inner core to his fingertips, replaced soon after by a kind of scorching fire that left him feeling as if he’d been burnt from the inside out.

Arthur’s half-sister let go of his wrist, smiling. “Don’t worry, your will is yet your own, Emrys. I want to see the fear and self-loathing in your eyes to the very moment I take you over to kill your King. But after I do that, you won’t have a choice except to do everything I say.” Her eyes flashed dangerously. “You will never be my doom.”

“And don’t worry,” she fingered the chains on his wrists, “you’ll find you can use your magic when the time comes.” She smiled at him, entirely without warmth, one last time, and then she vanished, the fiery light disappearing with her.

The sound of crumbling stone echoed around the cell, and Merlin felt small pebbles tumble to the ground next to his hands, before dissolving into sand. He realized he was lying on his side, curled into fetal position. The sand increased in amount as more of the stone tendrils crumbled, nearly burying his hands.

Seconds after the crumbling sound stopped, he felt gentle hands on him.

“Merlin?” Gwaine’s voice was nervous. “Merlin, are you alright?”

No, he wasn’t alright. He was going to kill Arthur. “Kill me,” he said, voice barely louder than a whisper.

“What?” Gwaine was helping him sit up.

“Kill me,” Merlin begged. “Please, before I kill Arthur.”

“What?!” The Knight’s voice was instantly sharp, his tone shocked. “No!”

“Please, Gwaine,” the warlock pleaded. “You can’t let this happen. You can’t let me kill him.”

“I won’t let you kill him,” his friend promised, “but I’m not going to kill you for that end.”

Merlin felt tears on his cheeks. “This is all wrong,” he stated brokenly. “It wasn’t supposed to happen like this.”

Gwaine wrapped his arms around him as best as he could with his wrists chained. “Merlin, it’s all going to be alright. Just go to sleep.”

The Knight’s voice was strong, but the warlock could feel the nervous tremors in the man’s hands. He was lying, but it didn’t matter, because sleeping sounded better than anything else. So he finally allowed himself to lose the battle against unconsciousness.

The last thing that he heard before he succumbed was a familiar, bewildered voice from somewhere behind the stone wall at his back.

“Gwaine?” the voice hissed.

* * *

Gwaine startled at the sound of his name, especially spoken by _that_ voice.

“Gwaine? Is that you?”

The Knight pulled himself away from Merlin, noting that his friend was completely dead to the world. For once, that was actually a good thing. He stood, searching for the source of the voice, and his fingers found a barred opening in the wall, at about the height of his chest.

“Percival?” he whispered.

“Gwaine!” His fellow Knight’s voice was shocked. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m with Merlin. How did you know it was me?”

“Your voice,” Percival answered. “Why wouldn’t I know it was you? And why is _Merlin_ here?”

“We’re disguised. I’m blonde,” Gwaine stated, his voice filled with distaste. “And Merlin’s used an ageing spell. He’s an old man, that Dragoon fellow. It was him all along. Arthur attacked the Druid camp where we were hiding out.”

“Oh no,” Percival muttered. “I heard Morgana. Who’s Emrys? We need to warn Arthur.”

“Merlin’s Emrys,” Gwaine hissed back. “He’s enchanted.”

There was silence from the other side of the bars for a moment. “This is bad,” Percival finally said.

“I know,” Gwaine agreed dejectedly. “I’ve told him everything will be alright, but I was lying. I have no idea what to do.”

“If he kills Arthur, he’ll never forgive himself.”

“And if Arthur kills Merlin, he won’t either,” he replied.

“We need to stop this,” Percival said, sounding determined.

“But how?”


	21. Knightly Rendezvous

The first rays of sunshine crested the bar-clad windowsills of Camelot’s prison cells, shedding light onto the cold stone walls. Percival woke instantly, half relieved and half horrified at the presence of the approaching dawn.

As the day brightened, he waited with trepidation for the changing of the guard, which occurred exactly an hour before the true dawn, which was the time when most executions were held. Merlin’s wasn’t likely to be different.

He watched the slumbering guard for a moment, thinking that it was highly un-Knightly behaviour to fall asleep on one’s watch. No wonder so many of Camelot’s prisoners escaped these dungeons. Then footsteps echoed down the steps at the far end of the hallways that bordered the cells, startling the dozing Knight – Sir Darras, Percival thought he was – so that he shot upright, attempting to make his red tunic look less crumpled. He watched for the replacement guard to appear.

Relief spread through him when he saw it was Elyan. The dark-skinned Knight shot Darras an unimpressed look before waving him away from his post.

Elyan waited for the man to disappear and then grinned at Percival through the bars, dangling a ring of keys from his fingers. “I’ve come to free you,” he stated dramatically.

“You stole Arthur’s keys?” Percival raised an incredulous eyebrow.

“Wasn’t at all difficult, either,” Elyan stated, slotting a key into place. “We need to work on Arthur’s security.”

“Why would you do that? If you’d been caught…”

“Merlin’s here. He’s disguised as Dragoon, that old man who planted that love spell.”

Percival stared at him, stunned, as the door swung open. “You know?”

“I heard him telling a story… wait, you know as well?”

“Yes,” Percival waved an agitated hand at the neighbouring cell. “Merlin’s in there, with Gwaine. They’re both disguised. Morgana came. I heard her, she put a spell on Merlin. He’s going to kill Arthur.”

“What?! We have to warn the King.” Elyan started towards the stairs out of the dungeon.

“We can’t,” he laid a massive hand on his friend’s shoulder, stopping him in his tracks. “What if he kills Merlin?”

“He’s going to do that anyway.”

“We have to stop this,” Percival insisted. “It isn’t right.”

“Arthur’s the King, Percival. If he’s going to execute people for having magic, he has the power to do so,” Elyan pointed out.

“But that’s _Merlin_. And Arthur’s wrong. Sorcerers are born with magic. It’s not their fault.”

“You’re speaking treason,” Elyan stated, not as a question.

“So what if I am! Merlin deserves our loyalty. And why did you free me if you didn’t want to change things?” He stared at the dark-skinned Knight, tightening his hold on the man’s arm. “Are you with me or not?”

Elyan stared back for a long moment, then clapped a hand over Percival’s, smiling slightly. “I’m with you.”

* * *

Queen Guinevere glanced out the window of her bedchambers, which overlooked the courtyard of Camelot Castle. The pyre rose in the center of the stone-paved expanse, a tower of brittle, dry wood and equally dry grasses, the stake to which sorcerer’s were tied spiking from the center. Dawn was near, and she was honour-bound as Queen to attend.

She wanted to run away. This dredged up bad memories that she had no desire to relive, of when Uther was king, when her father had died. Arthur was as deaf as Uther to her reasoning now. She didn’t think the Druids deserved this. They were peaceful people, and many of them were children. Talking to her husband hadn’t done anything, save reveal to her that Arthur was apparently convincing himself that he was executing Dragoon for _her sake_ , because of the whole love potion ordeal.

When she looked back on that situation, thinking she was going to die, she had begun to notice things. That man had _let_ himself be caught, and then escaped after revealing that he was to blame, action that saved her life.

And Arthur appeared to think that this execution should make her happy. As if death could ever make someone happy. Satisfied, maybe, in some sick, twisted way, but not _happy_. Her husband seemed to be looking for excuses. He couldn’t possibly believe that magic was completely evil, not after knowing _Merlin._ She wanted to slap him and make him snap out of it, but she couldn’t even go near him anymore. She didn’t want to see those dead eyes, the lack of his smile.

The only thing her King had going in his favour was that he wasn’t executing all the Druids, just Dragoon, as a warning that magic would not be tolerated in his kingdom.

Her husband was a fool. Driving Merlin farther away from him so he’d never have to think about what he’d done was not going to help. If he’d talked to him, things could have worked out, she knew they could’ve. But Merlin had left, vanishing into thin air, and weeks had passed, and he hadn’t returned. Gwen didn’t understand it. The Merlin she’d known would never have deserted Arthur so readily. But then she remembered the look in his eyes, the crushing defeat and pain, and she wondered if maybe Arthur had hurt Merlin beyond something that could be mended. But banning magic like this was the worst thing he could’ve done. Why couldn’t he just _admit_ that he missed his manservant and go about this like a real man, instead of becoming a shadow puppet of his father?

She was three months pregnant, and it was showing, if one looked for the signs. She was nauseous in the morning, and the presence of the child was starting to show around her waist. She wore her dresses slightly looser to compensate, but Arthur should have noticed the signs. For one, he should have been with her in the mornings to see her throwing up. He should be noticing that her dresses aren’t as form-fitting as usual. He should be noticing her mood swings and sudden cravings for random things, like fruit, ice, or on one occasion, _dirt._

But her husband didn’t, for all he was trained as a Knight to notice the tiniest details. Arthur, who had told her he loved her and married her, even after everything, was completely unaware of one of the most important things that could happen to a couple. She knew she should tell him, but she didn’t want to know if his reaction was just going to involve those dead eyes and vacant expression. She wanted him to grin, twirl her around and kiss her, with excitement shining in his eyes.

But that pyre told her everything she needed to know. Arthur was no longer _her_ Arthur, he was a King, distant and above others, and she was nothing more than a Lady of the Court, for all the power of her crown.

The red of the dawn spread across the sky. This crown meant she had to go down there and listen to a man who was probably her saviour scream as he burned. And Arthur thought it was some kind of _gift_. The scene through her window misted over as tears burned her eyes.

_What has become of us?_


	22. Flames of Magic

The courtyard was eerily silent, despite the mass of bodies stood upon its cobble-stoned space. The whisper of wind fluttered red cloaks of Arthur’s Knights, who flanked groups of chained Druids on every side. The sound of flapping fabric was accompanied only by the occasional shuffle of feet or the sniffle of a child.

The pyre seemed to draw more than gazes from the surrounding crowd, leeching the very life and sound out of everything in the area. It reeked an aura of menace and death that affected them all, for all it was but a stack of brittle wood in the center of a stone courtyard.

It was amazing, Gwaine thought, how the situation could change everything you felt about a place. He remembered so many times returning to this same courtyard when he had felt joyful to have returned to something he felt was _home_. Camelot had become more of a home to him than anywhere else he had travelled. Merlin was his family. Arthur had been a noble worth serving. The city had been worth fighting for. Now, he wouldn’t have cared less if the castle was attacked by a legion of Mercian soldiers. In fact, he would have welcomed it, since that would offer an opportunity for him to get Merlin away from here.

Even the sun had none of its attraction anymore. Where he once would have greeted its rising with a cheery smile – and perhaps a bit of a hangover – he now wanted it to sink back under the horizon and leave the world in darkness again.

His hands twitched involuntarily, and the chains between them clinked, the tiniest sound seeming to be louder by a hundredfold in the deathly silence. He could feel and hear his heart beating with the ferocity of an army’s drum signals, his blood rushing through his temples as loudly as the flow of the river. He felt as if he were on a field of battle, seconds from clashing with an opposing army, the intoxicating emotions of adrenaline and fearful protectiveness mixing with a sort of impossible hope and dreadful helplessness. For what could he do, chained as he was and surrounded by men who considered him a dangerous threat?

The knight glanced at Merlin, who yet stood at his side. Soon, he knew, the warlock would be dragged away from him, towards that pyre. His friend stared blankly at the carefully stacked pile of brittle wood, no emotion coloring his face.

If Merlin had cried silently, or looked at him with fearful eyes, he would have known what to do, would have shuffled over and comforted the still-disguised man as best he could. If the warlock had looked at his death with acceptance, he would have made some joking comment to snap Merlin out of it and then offered comfort and encouragement that everything was going to be alright.

This… this…. _nothingness_ , was worse than any emotion he had ever seen on his friends face since the moment he had found him in Ealdor.

He reached out and touched his fingers to his friends shoulder, trying to get him to look at him, to see some emotion in that gaze.

Merlin turned to him, eyes completely blank, and then his mouth twisted into the most un-Merlin-like smirk he’d ever seen. Everything about it reminded him of…

“Morgana!” Gwaine’s whisper turned angry. “You’re making a mistake.”

“No, I’m not,” Morgana-Merlin said, just as quietly, smirk remaining steadfastly in place. “And don’t worry, Emrys will be fine. I have far more uses for him than just this one. I shall enjoy watching this.” The smirk turned to a satisfied smile, and his possessed friend turned away, to watch the doors of the castle open.

Horror gripped the Knight’s heart as Arthur stepped through the doors. Merlin was possessed; Arthur was coming to begin the execution. Elyan was nowhere to be seen. Percival was probably still in the dungeons. And Morgana… Morgana was… His thoughts stalled. _I shall enjoy watching this_.

Morgana was here! Watching!

Then Elyan and Percival, in full armour, stepped out of the castle behind Arthur and a distraught-looking Gwen, and the impossible hope battling against the fear in his heart suddenly didn’t seem so impossible anymore.

* * *

Gwen took her place at the top of the steps leading down to the castle courtyard. Once, her place would have been side by side with Arthur, indicating they were equals as rulers over Camelot. Now, she stayed a step behind her husband, and she couldn’t even remember when that had gone from being Arthur’s wish to being hers. Standing near Arthur had lost its appeal.

Subdued groups of chained Druids occupied the space in her view, surrounded by knights. She could see Dragoon at the front of the group, looking blankly in their direction, some sort of strange smile on his elderly face. Another man, a blonde one, had a hand on the old sorcerer’s shoulder, a mix of horror and fear in his expression. She wondered if the man was Dragoon’s son. _How many more families will the Pendragons tear apart?_

Arthur stepped forward, his expression a mirror of Uther’s when he attended one of these executions, mouth set in a firm line, jaw clenched, eyes without emotion.

“Magic,” he began, “is a curse.” Gwen struggled to remain strong as her husband began an all-too-familiar dialogue on the vice that was magic. _Merlin_ was magic. Merlin wasn’t a curse, or evil, or even slightly vindictive, for that matter. What did Arthur expect to gain from this? She blocked the speech from her mind, staring at the still-blank eyes of the man the King wanted to execute. Why had he allowed himself to be caught planting that love potion? Why had he saved her life?

“This man,” Arthur pointed at Dragoon, drawing Gwen’s attention again, “Not only nearly got the woman I love killed,” – Gwen froze at those words, staring at him. Arthur hadn’t mentioned _loving_ her for… for far too long – “He caused the death of my father. As such, I sentence him to death by fire both for crimes against the crown and as a warning to all magic-users that their arts will be tolerated no longer in Camelot.” His gaze swept over the groups of Druids, full of warning. “Seize him.”

Two knights stepped forward and took hold of Dragoon’s arms, pulling him towards the pyre. The old man didn’t even resist, though the blonde man beside him made a movement as if he wanted to grab his fellow Druid and prevent him from being taken. Another Knight stepped forwards to restrain him, and Gwen found her gaze drawn to the blonde, who stared after Dragoon with fear-filled eyes, before flicking his gaze around the courtyard, searching for something.

Dragoon was pulled onto the pyre and pushed up against the stake. The knights used chains to bind him there. They stepped back, one of them taking a torch from the bracket where it had been left beside the stack of brittle wood. The man looked to Arthur for confirmation.

Gwen wanted him to shake his head, for her husband to call the entire thing off, to run down there and stop this nightmare. But he didn’t, just jerking his chin toward his chest in what was unmistakeably a sign of acceptance.

The torch dropped onto the wood, flames spurting sparks as they touched the brittle fuel. Tears welled up in Gwen’s eyes.

“Any last words, sorcerer?” Arthur asked, coldly, as the flames began to leap higher, licking the sky with ferocity as they worked their way up the wood to the man who was tied at the stake.

A child started to cry. Gwen’s tear-filled eyes found a little girl among the Druids, sobbing as she stared across the courtyard, not at the doomed man, but at Percival. The huge Knight suddenly seemed to collapse, falling into Elyan, who barely managed to hold up his weight. The muscular man was staring at the child, one of the one’s Arthur has unchained, Gwen saw, and looking as if he was seeing something different, something horrible.

The sorcerer on the fire raised his voice. It was nearly a scream. “Do you hear that, Arthur Pendragon? Do you hear the cries of the innocents you have sentenced to death?”

Arthur just looked emotionlessly down at the pyre, and spoke words that made Gwen want to fall to her knees and sob. “Those who practice magic are never innocent.”

A smirk twisted the elderly man’s face. “How wrong you are, Pendragon!”

And then the chains holding him to the pyre, and the ones between his wrists, shattered as if they had been made of glass.

* * *

A pair of eyes, in a child’s face, brimmed full of tears, suddenly flashing gold. Percival staggered, his instinctive protectiveness suddenly smothered in emotions of fear and apprehension, not his own, butt seeming to invade his mind from somewhere else. The world blurred, and he felt a rush of air past his ears as if he were falling, before everything was blocked out as images flashed through his head.

_Angry voices echoed as if in the distance, the words jumbled together so they made no sense. His peripheral vision was blocked by some sort of hood, but in his sight a pyre rose, newly lit flames flickering. A man stood on the pyre, a man with a long white beard._

_A feminine hand raised before him, a bracelet on the delicate wrist. A_ familiar _bracelet. There was a mumble of words, the hand made a strange motion, a flick of the wrist, fingers closing together and opening wide._

_The chains holding the man to the pyre shattered, metal links glinting as they clattered onto stone cobbles._

Percival started from his vision sharply, finding that his entire weight was being supported by a very concerned Sir Elyan, just as the chains shattered, links scattering across the courtyard. The elderly sorcerer stepped off the fire, the flames parting to let him through, and into sudden silence.

“You should not have made an enemy of me, Arthur,” the man Percival knew to be Merlin smirked.

Instantly, Knights were in action, abandoning their posts by the chained Druids, drawing swords. They made it mere steps before they were thrown backwards. The simple wave of the possessed Merlin’s hand dismantled Arthur’s army as if they were a group of tin soldiers rather than a legion of trained Knights.

Percival snapped back to himself, pulling his weight off Elyan to stand on his own. He ripped his sword from its sheath, turning with furious energy to face his fellow knight. “Stop Merlin! Morgana’s here! I’ll find her!” He roared over the clatter of armour and pained cries, before sprinting forward, looking for the viewpoint from which he’d seen Morgana’s unmistakable bracelet.

* * *

Elyan stared in shock as Percival sprinted off. One second his big friend was half-collapsed against him, the next he was off running and shouting something about Morgana and Merlin.

 _Stop Merlin!_ How the hell was he supposed to accomplish that? He threw himself aside, drawing his sword, as one of the warlock’s spells sent a fellow Knight crashing past him into the castle steps. The man hit the stone head-first and didn’t move.

Stopping Merlin was going to be about as easy as stopping a hurricane. Hadn’t Percival seen what their scrawny friend had done to that huge Knight with just two words? He threw himself into the fray anyways, barely avoiding a flying sword as a spell drew the weapon from another Knight’s hand and nearly impaled him. The blade slammed against the castle wall instead, the sheer force with which it had been thrown breaking the sharpened steel into pieces.

He gritted his teeth. If he was going to stop a possessed Merlin, he was going to have to get near him first. Somehow, the likeliness of that actually happening seemed rather low. He ducked a demon helmet that had apparently grown teeth and nearly tripped over a Knight who was being strangled by his own cloak, before shooting a glance after Percival. The muscular man was standing near the pyre, searching the courtyard for something.

He only had time to see the Knight turn somewhat resolutely in a certain direction and start running again before he discovered that he was the only one left standing.

The elderly Merlin turned to face him, face twisting unrecognizably. His eyes were dead. “Your knights are no match for me. Why don’t you come fight me yourself, instead of hiding behind them?” He flicked his hand almost nonchalantly, and Elyan was stunned as an incredible weight slammed into his chest, sending him flying backwards at least ten feet. He hit the ground with a jarring thud, hearing rather than feeling something in his arm snap ominously. Pain exploded through him a second later as he attempted to bring himself back to his feet.

The bearded sorcerer was advancing on Arthur, who had shoved Gwen behind him, drawing his sword. For a second he looked like the old Arthur, the one who would do anything to protect others, his armour glinting and head held high. But something in his eyes wasn’t right. There was fear, but there was also hatred, none of the rational level-headedness that always followed the young King into battle. He took a step forward, bringing them together so they were only a few steps apart.

“If you had any honour, you would fight me with a sword, and not with abilities you obtained with ill will,” Arthur taunted.

The sorcerer paused for a moment, raising his hand slowly before him. “I was born with it.” Energy crackled across his palm, and he began to speak the words that would end Arthur’s life. “ _Ácwe…_ ” His voice suddenly stuttered off.

Merlin stumbled backwards, and Elyan saw something as he did so, a flicker in the man’s eyes, a sort of determination and inner struggle, mixed with horror and extreme pain.

Arthur raised his sword, obviously stunned at his good fortune. In that moment, Elyan knew it was time to act. He had just seen _Merlin_ in those eyes. Merlin was fighting the possession. Arthur was going to kill him.

He threw himself forward, broken arm be damned. Without his sword and injured, he blocked the arc of his King’s blade the only way he knew how, by throwing a gauntleted arm up to stop it.

The blade bit into the metal, and pain exploded through his body as he registered that he had just stopped the swing of a word with a bloody _broken arm_ , but as he crashed to the ground, watching Arthur’s face flicker from stunned silence to blazing fury, he managed to speak through the pain. “No! Arthur, he’s possessed!”

And then a scream of frustration distracted the King before he could chop of his brother-in-law’s head in a fit of anger.

 _Oh good,_ Elyan thought _, Percival’s finally found Morgana._ Then he decided it was time to lose consciousness.

* * *

Percival reached the ostentatious purple cloak at the moment he heard Merlin stop speaking the death spell halfway through. He only knew one person who would wear this color, though why on earth she’d be stupid enough to wear it to an execution, he had no idea. Could she be any more conspicuous? Though, considering her attire when she was trying to sneak Druid boys out of the palace and when she snuck through the corridors at night, all high-heeled shoes and fancy outfits, he actually wasn’t all that surprised.

He just hoped he wasn’t wrong. As Elyan shouted for Arthur to stop, he brought his sword up and swung it at the King’s half-sister with a vicious yell.

A second later, he’d been blown backwards by a wordless magic spell, watching the gold fade from Morgana’s eyes, her hood falling back to reveal her all-too-obvious presence. The group of commoners she’d been hiding in scattered, some pinned beneath Percival’s weight, others throwing themselves away from the witch in an attempt at self-preservation.

A frustrated scream tore from the woman’s lips, and she whipped back towards the faced-off pair near the castle doors, not noticing that her spell hadn’t knocked the big Knight out.

Percival struggled to his knees, feeling nauseous and dizzy. His sword seemed to have disappeared somewhere, so he reached for his hunting knife, which was concealed in his boot.

“How did it _not work_?” The witch was screaming, sounding like a child having a tantrum.

“Morgana?” _Oh, if Arthur could only see the look on his face right now,_ Percival thought, watching his King stare at his half-sister with shock.

“Oh, yes, brother, it’s me.” She stalked forward, pushing back her sleeves in preparation to do magic. “I can’t believe you actually think _he_ wants to kill you.” She pointed furiously at Merlin, who had collapsed to his knees, looking as if he was awaking from a nightmare. “Only _you_ would be so dense! So _blind_ to magic just like our _beloved_ father. _I_ was the one who planted the love potion. _He saved you_. _I_ was the one who put the amulet around Uther’s neck that made any healing magic turn the other way and amplify by tenfold! _Emrys_ tried to heal him! When I heard you were going to kill him, your one true magical ally, I could hardly believe my luck! The possession should have worked! He should have killed you!”

Her eyes flashed with anger. Percival struggled to his feet, overwhelmed by dizziness. He reached up to touch his head. His hand came away sticky with blood.

“No matter,” the witch said, regaining a hold on herself. “If you want something done, you have to do it yourself. And I don’t think just killing you will be good enough.” She grinned wickedly and turned towards Gwen, who was no longer behind Arthur. “You’ll never have an heir, Arthur. When you die, I will be the one to take the throne, and you will have to live until then with the fact that your child _died_ because of you!”

Percival realized to late what was happening.

“ _Berbay odothay ungeboren bearn ácwelan_!” The witch shouted.

The Knight threw himself forward, felt his hunting knife sink into flesh, driving home in the woman’s back, but it was too late, a streaking bolt of black light sped from Morgana’s extended hands, heading towards Gwen.

“No!” Dragoon-Merlin-Emrys screamed, throwing himself across the courtyard.

As the bolt of energy slammed into his midriff, Morgana’s lifeless body collapsed into his arms, and Percival didn’t even need to look down to know that she was dead, her blood sticky and warm as it poured out onto his hands in rhythmic gushes. He’d stabbed her through the heart.

But her death hardly mattered, because across the courtyard the disguised Merlin had collapsed, frail body dropping to the cobblestones limply.

Gwaine gave a strangled cry from his place among the other druids. There was a loud snap, and the unrecognizable Knight broke his chains not with magic as Merlin had but from sheer strength, the blood on his wrists evidence to how hard he had been struggling. The blonde man was across the courtyard in a heartbeat, gathering Merlin in his arms.

The world seemed to go silent and cold, as Arthur stared, unmoving, down at the man who had just tried to kill him and then saved his wife’s life, one hand still extended towards Gwen, indicating he had been about to throw himself in front of her as well. One moment too late.

Gwaine shook Merlin’s shoulder ineffectively. “Merlin, you are _not allowed to die!_ Not for Arthur’s stupid child, dammit!”

The spell-damaged sorcerer started to shake uncontrollably, spasms wrenching his body this way and that. Before the watching crowd, the man’s elderly appearance changed, long white beard receding to a reveal a hairless jawline, wrinkles smoothed back of high cheekbones, hair turning black.

Arthur stared at the man at his feet, shocked. “Merlin?” he gasped.

Then he fell to his knees at his former manservant’s side. “Merlin!” He shook the man’s shoulder, wanting his eyes to open.

“Get away from him!” Gwaine growled.

Arthur stumbled backwards, and his fall would have been comical in any other situation. He obviously hadn’t expected the blonde druid to suddenly transform into one of his Knights.

“Come on, Merlin,” the Knight begged, satisfied now that the King had moved away. “Wake up.”

Relief spread through Percival as the scrawny brunette opened familiar blue eyes, wrapping arms around his midriff as if he was in pain.

Arthur reached a hand towards him almost involuntarily, expression one of shock and denial, as if he expected his former manservant to vanish before his eyes. Percival registered that he was unconsciously doing the same thing. He’d dropped Morgana’s body unceremoniously and moved forward towards his far-too-pale friend.

Gwaine’s head snapped up. His glare was potent enough to make Arthur freeze. “Stay away from him!” he spat. “This is all your fault!”

“No, Gwaine, it’s alright.” Merlin’s voice was so weak. “I want to talk to him before…”

“You are _not_ going to die!” Gwaine ordered him.

Only _Merlin_ would have the nerve to roll his eyes when he was at death’s door. “Gwaine, just… please?”

The Knight turned to glare at Arthur. “Well, what are you waiting for, then?”

The King staggered forward and dropped to his knees at his former manservant’s side. “Merlin?” His voice cracked halfway through the name.

“Always meant to die for you, Arthur,” Merlin murmured, reaching over to take his King’s hand. The way the royal grasped it was obvious enough to Percival. The man had been a fool, not going to look for Merlin, not admitting that he’d been wrong. “Guess I am really,” Merlin went on, “in a roundabout way… for your child.”

“I didn’t know I had a child,” he choked out.

The warlock’s eyes shot open. They’d been closing slowly. “What do you mean? She’s three months along… I can feel the life force from…” He trailed off and managed a rather potent glare despite his weakened state. “Arthur, you prat! Just because you found out I had magic didn’t mean you had to destroy the entire life you’ve put together! What’d you do to Gwen that made her not want to tell you, you idiot?!”

Gwen was crying. . “I don’t want you to die,” Arthur choked out after glancing at her, squeezing the warlock’s hand.

“But I’m magic,” Merlin murmured, eyes closing. Gwaine was crying as well, silent sobs shaking his shoulders. “And you think magic is evil. That’s what you said.”

“I was wrong.” Arthur blurted the words out. Percival had never seen his King say something without thinking before, but he did, now, for Merlin. “I know that now. You’re not like Morgana. Always saving me, and Gwen… even my father. I’m… I’m so sorry.” He swallowed convulsively. “Please, you can’t die. I was… I was just…”

“Being a prat?” Merlin finished for him, the barest smile curving his lips.

Tears were gathering in the King’s eyes. “Yes, I was being a prat.”

“And an idiot,” Merlin added. He didn’t bother to open his eyes. His arm loosed slightly in its hold over his midriff, as if he didn’t have the strength to hold it there anymore. “Stupid of you, to declare war on magic when you didn’t have me at you side to make sure no spells hurt you.”

“Yes, an idiot as well,” Arthur agreed, the tears on his cheeks now.

“At least…” Merlin drew a ragged breath. “At least you know not all magic is evil now, Arthur. I’m good. And the Druids are too, most of them. There’s always some bad with the good. Just promise me something, Arthur.”

“Anything.”

“Don’t be an idiot again, not when I’m not here to save you, alright?”

“I… I promise,” the King said.

The barest smile curved the warlock’s lips. “Good. You’ll be a great king, Arthur.” His voice was soft, barely loud enough to be heard. He took another ragged breath. “I’m just… sorry I won’t be there to see it.”

His breathing grew shallower, and his knuckles whitened as he gripped Arthur’s hand with sudden strength.

“Arthur,” he managed, his voice full of fear and pain. Then he went limp, head rolling back, arm falling to his side, revealing the blood that had been soaking through his robes beneath it.

For a moment, there was a complete, dreadful silence. Then Arthur shot to his feet. “He is _not_ dead. I refuse to believe it.” He spun around, searching for a certain wizened face. “Gaius!”

The elderly physician was already rushing forward.

Percival was already there, grabbing his scrawny friend’s thin wrist, searching for that precious pulse that would signal that Merlin was alive. _Please,_ he begged every god he’d ever heard of. _Please let it not be too late._

 


	23. Resolution

Arthur stared at the door to the Court Physician’s chambers, wondering how it was that even though he had faced dragons and vengeful sorcerers and undead armies, the idea of opening this particular door was more terrifying then the entire lot of them. It seemed simple. Raise your hand, put it on the handle, and open the door. Easy, something he’d done probably thousands of times, maybe millions.

But beyond that basic principle, everything got really complicated. His arms remained crossed tightly over his chest. Merlin was alive, though barely, and he lay beyond this door. The King wanted to see him, to feel his pulse and hear him breathe, but the other half of him, the half that was so cracked and broken that he wasn’t sure he would ever be able to repair it, wanted to turn around and never go near this room or its occupant ever again.

Part of it was pride, and he knew that, hated himself for it. He had thought he’d made the right decision. It had seemed simple at the time. After Merlin revealed himself, he had a choice. He either accepted his friend and his magic, and as a result allowed magic back in Camelot, or he rejected Merlin the way he was and in tandem banned magic as Uther had. There was no middle ground, no compromise.

He’d expected it to be easy. To ban magic he had to make a point. His father had never made the move to completely rid magic from Camelot by driving out the Druids. He’d decided he would use that as an example. Finding Dragoon had been a bonus.

Until he found out that the elderly sorcerer was completely innocent, and not only that, but _Merlin in disguise_. That moment of Merlin throwing himself in front of that jet of black light replayed in his head whenever he closed his eyes. He heard his friend’s last words, watched his eyes close, saw the blood. How many times had Merlin saved his life, and Gwen’s, and now his unborn child’s?

He’d come to this same door before, stood in the entranceway – it had been open then – watching Gwaine hunched over the warlock’s sick bed, looking as broken as Merlin did. He’d thought, for a heartbreaking moment, that he’d walked in on the Knight realizing that the man was dead, until Gwaine had took Merlin’s hand and begged him to keep breathing, cursing Arthur and his family with every other sentence.

He had struggled between a desire to agree with Gwaine’s opinion of him and a desire to storm across the room and wring the Knight’s neck in response to certain words the man was using to describe his unborn child. He’d gathered that Gwaine didn’t really blame the baby for existing though, he blamed Arthur for that. He blamed Arthur for everything.

So what had happened when the Knight had looked up and seen the King hadn’t been much of a surprise.

_Gwaine’s expression went from pained and lonely to furious in less than a heartbeat. Next thing Arthur knew the Knight had stormed across the room, grabbed the King by the shirt and slammed him into the wall of the corridor across from Gaius’s door._

“ _What are you doing here?” he growled, shoving the royal roughly against the stone, his anger making him strong enough to lift Arthur off his feet._

“ _You don’t_ deserve _to be here,” Gwaine hissed, not allowing him time to answer. “After everything you’ve done. You’re the reason he’s lying in there, half-dead, so not even the Druid’s magic can fully heal him.”_

“ _Gwaine,” Arthur struggled to get back to the ground, wrapping his fingers around the Knight’s wrists to try and get him to release him. “I just wanted to see…”_

“ _Stay away from him!” The man practically yelled, pushing the King again so that Arthur’s head slammed into the wall rather painfully. “You’ve hurt him enough.” He let go just as quickly as he’d attacked, and the royal nearly toppled over as he found that he was no longer pinned to the wall._

 _Indignation replaced his guilt. “He’s the one who lied to me! I_ trusted _him, and he didn’t tell me!”_

 _Gwaine took a menacing step forward, fury apparent on his features. “Merlin didn’t tell you because he was afraid of how you’d react, and look how you reacted. You_ sent him away! _You’re the reason I had to watch him fall apart, barely smiling or laughing, looking at me with those dead eyes. You didn’t see him, broken over the fact that he was never going to fulfill his destiny, because you’re two sides of the same_ bloody _coin and you rejected him! You didn’t see him being tortured by those chains, separated from his very self. You didn’t hear him_ begging _me to kill him when Morgana put the possession spell on him! You sent away the kindest, most loyal person in the whole damn world. You sent away a man who loved you despite the fact he thought you hated him! It is your bloody fault, and you don’t deserve to be anywhere near him!” He finally stopped yelling, breathless, and glared at Arthur._

“ _I…” he began, trying to take this in._

“ _No. Don’t, Arthur. I don’t want to hear you make excuses for what you did. I don’t want to hear how you felt or why you chose to turn into your bastard of a father. Just leave.”_

_Arthur stood his ground. “I need to see him. I…”_

_Gwaine punched him in the face._

“ _NO!” He practically screamed the word at him. “Leave, Arthur. And don’t you dare come near him again unless you’re willing to accept him entirely. If you’re going to blame him, and hate him for lying to you, if you’re still stupid enough to believe magic is evil after knowing him and hearing what Morgana said, if you even think about being angry with him, then don’t come back, or I swear to God I’ll kill you. There are enough broken pieces of him for me to put back together without you shattering him again.”_

He’d turned and slammed this same door in Arthur’s face, leaving the royal feeling stunned and guilty, barely noticing the bruise purpling on his jaw from where the Knight had struck him.

This closed door represented everything that stood between him and Merlin. Him sending the warlock away, those cursed chains, the execution, his rapidly dissolving belief that magic was evil, the lies he was willing to put behind them, the hurtful words he’d said, Merlin never returning after he left. He’d thought the man would, that Merlin would come back through those doors and challenge Arthur like he always did, but he never had.

He still felt betrayed, and hurt, and lonely, but he didn’t really have the choice of turning away, of going back to his chambers. Between a reprimanding Gaius, a hurt Gwen, a protective Gwaine, a healing Elyan and a recluse Percival, he had been told that he was an idiot and a prat and a lot of words he didn’t care to repeat, and that he should go see Merlin.

Gaius had told him to swallow his pride, that Merlin had harboured every intention of telling Arthur about his magic, eventually, before he was challenged. Gwen, being far too kind, had forgiven him out loud, but they would take time to heal, and she currently sided with Merlin. Seeing as Merlin had actually instantly noticed she was pregnant and subsequently saved the child’s life, he couldn’t blame her. Gwaine was well… Gwaine. Elyan and Percival just wanted Arthur to apologize. The King knew that part of him wanted to apologize, wanted to regain that friendship that he had lost for the last three months. The other part wanted Merlin to apologize to him.

 _Swallow your pride,_ his conscious berated him. _You banished him for saving your life, attacked him and a camp of innocent Druids, tortured him with magic chains, and tried to kill him._

He steeled himself to raise his hand to the handle, but wavered before his fingers touched the metal. _So much for the courage of Kings,_ he thought, goading himself forward.

He opened the door. That step through the doorway was the hardest step he’d ever made. He raised his gaze slowly to the prone form on Gaius’s sick bed, and froze.

A pair of nervous blue eyes stared back at him with intensity.

“Hello, Arthur,” that voice he’d missed so much spoke.

“Merlin,” he managed, taking another stiff step forward. He made it to the seat beside the bed and lowered himself onto it. He was so pale, a fragile, scrawny frame beneath a thin blanket, cheeks gaunt. The spell that Morgana had cast had been meant for the child, and had wreaked havoc with Merlin’s internal organs. The Druids had done what they could, but even then, too much magic mixing with the curse could cause more harm than good. In the end healing had been mostly up to Merlin. He was stronger than he looked, but there had been ages where Arthur had stood outside Gaius’s chambers feeling like he was being ripped apart as Merlin had screamed. He’d never heard his manservant scream like that before, and he never wanted to again.

They stared at each other for a long moment. The silence was painful. Arthur yearned for the playful banter they normally had, wanted his manservant to say something impertinent and cheeky.

“So…” Merlin began, voice soft, almost making it to teasing. “Am I going to have to let Gwaine murder you?”

“He told you about that?” Arthur asked, running a hand through his blonde hair.

“He didn’t have to. I heard him yelling.”

“I thought you were unconscious then.”

“I came closer to the surface sometimes.” He picked at a loose thread on the blanket. “I remember some things, people talking, some Druids casting healing spells, Gwen crying.” He glanced up quickly. “You weren’t there.”

“I was…” he stopped himself from saying the word ‘busy’, from making excuses, as he stared into the eyes of his friend. “I was being a prat,” he admitted.

Merlin looked taken aback, and then a grin spread slowly across his face. “That’s the second time you’ve admitted it,” he teased.

An answering smile spread across the King’s face. “It’s easier the second time,” he said, as if revealing a great secret.

“I wouldn’t know,” Merlin smiled.

For a moment it felt like old times, but then Arthur’s smile faded. He swallowed loudly, his throat suddenly dry.

“I should’ve come earlier,” he said. “This was all my fault.”

Merlin stared at him for a long moment, then he sighed. “I want to be mad at you, Arthur, I really do.”

A hopeful spark ignited somewhere in Arthur’s heart. “Does that mean you’re not?”

The warlock smiled slightly. “I want to be. But I’m seriously tired of not talking to you, and you look like the entire world has gone against you. I hear even Leon has taken my side. And it’s not _all_ your fault, because I should have told you before… but I was afraid you’d react the way you did. We’ve both done things we regret.”

Arthur nodded. He knew that this was Merlin’s way of saying he wanted to put things behind them, an unspoken apology and an offer of forgiveness at the same time, but this time, he wasn’t going to leave it unspoken. “You have every right to be angry with me,” he said. “I… I made the wrong decision. I thought that it was the right one, but I think it was mostly prejudice, and fear.” He smiled wryly. “I should have gone after you to Ealdor, and actually talked to you, heard your side, before I made that decision.” He paused. “There’s a lot of things I should’ve done.” His fist clenched slightly, fingernail biting into his skin. “You nearly died because of me,” he finally said.

Merlin shrugged. “I’ve nearly died a lot of times because of you, Arthur. That’s not really…”

“No,” Arthur cut him off. “Let me finish.” He took a deep breath. “I just want to say I’m sorry, for everything.” He needed to say those words.

The pale brunette smiled, looking tired. “I know. I am as well, and I forgive you.”

Arthur felt a grin spreading across his face, as relief swept through him. “Gwaine’s not going to be happy with you.”

The warlock made a face. “He thinks I’m going too easy on you, but really, there are enough people being angry at you on my behalf that I don’t really need to. I’ve heard that both Percival and Gwaine punched you in the face.”

Arthur winced. “I think I deserved it, both times.”

“You’d better figure out how to get back on their good side. I don’t want you getting a gauntlet thrown at you when Gwaine’s in a mood and decides to kill you. I’ve told him it’s not a good idea, and since he’s not keen to upset me right now…” The warlock was beginning to look as if he were falling asleep, eyes sliding shut. Arthur knew he should probably let the man sleep, but he wasn’t ready to let go of the conversation yet.

“Me dying would upset you?” Arthur asked, smiling. “Even after all this?”

“Yes, actually,” he answered, his voice serious. Then he cracked one eye open to look at the King, smiling. His tone turned teasing when he went on. “I didn’t spend all that time polishing your armour so it could go gather dust in a corner because its prat of an owner got himself killed by one of his knights.”

“Well, you won’t be polishing my armour anymore,” Arthur told him. “You’re not going to be my manservant.”

Merlin’s eyes shot open. “You’re… firing me?” His voice cracked.

Horror swept through the King as he registered the pain in his friend’s eyes, and he spoke hurriedly. “No! No, I’m promoting you,” he assured the warlock.

Confusion replaced pain. “Promoting me?”

“To Court Sorcerer,” Arthur stated, smiling.

Merlin looked stunned. “To… Court Sorcerer? Really?”

The blonde rolled his eyes. “Yes, Merlin, really. It’s the first step in repealing the ban on magic. There will be some exceptions, like dark magic. It’ll be up to you to go into detail about which types of magic are outlawed or not. I’ve put you in charge over all magical law, and you’ll be the judge of any trials related to magic from now on. The death penalty has already been revoked.”

The man was, for once, completely speechless. He stared wordlessly at Arthur.

The King furrowed his brow, worried that he’d handed over too much information at once. The man was sick, after all.

“This… this is actually happening,” Merlin finally managed. He reached out and touched the sleeve of Arthur’s shirt, as if to assure himself that he was actually there. “It’s not a dream?”

The King shook his head, smiling at his new Court Sorcerer’s reaction. “It’s real,” he assured him. “But you aren’t allowed to do anything strenuous. Gaius says you can’t leave the castle for a while. No quests, no walks in the woods unaccompanied, and no powerful magic. You’re officially not allowed to nearly die again. By order of the King.”

Merlin laughed. “Can’t promise you anything, Arthur. If another sorcerer shows up and tries to kill you, I’ll still be the one trying to save your life.”

The King glared at him half-heartedly, knowing that the refusal to agree with him was just habit. Merlin never just did things, he always made it difficult, but that was part of his charm. “Fine, but unless that happens, you’re staying in bed.”

Merlin frowned. “I don’t want to stay in bed. It’s boring.”

Arthur rolled his eyes. “Fine, you can help Gwen, or go read all the magic books my Father collected during the Great Purge, or teach me more about magic. But nothing strenuous.”

The warlock’s eyes lit up. “There are magic books? Where?”

His enthusiasm made Arthur smile, and he reached into his pocket to find his key ring, and pulled a specific key from it. “In the vaults, at the moment.” He handed the key to his friend, who took it as if it was a precious gift. “But you must promise me that you won’t try to carry any of them back up here yourself. Take Gwaine or Percival with you.”

Merlin grinned. “Alright, I promise.” He shot Arthur a sly look. “Did you think of this way to win my forgiveness back all by yourself?”

The King hadn’t thought of it that way. “I just thought that the books would be of more use in the hands of someone who actually understands them,” he said, truthfully.

The warlock fingered the key, looking wide awake now. Arthur had a feeling he’d have to hire someone to keep Merlin from getting up before he was fully healed. Maybe that key hadn’t been such a good idea.

“Have you thought of anything for Gwen?” Merlin asked. “I doubt there’s anything as special as magic books in the vaults for her.” He glanced up quickly, taking in Arthur’s expression.

The King sighed. “I’m still working on that.” He was pretty sure he deserved the distance his Queen was keeping from him.

The warlock shot him a sly look. “You could let me turn the castle pink. Gwen would find that entertaining.”

“What?” the King yelped. “I am _not_ turning the castle pink. I’d be the laughingstock…”

“Arthur!” Merlin interrupted him sharply. “It’s not about you! It’s about Gwen!” He glared at the King.

Arthur took a breath and swallowed his pride. “Well,” he managed. _I can’t believe I’m agreeing to this._ “If you think Gwen would like it…”

“Excellent!” Merlin beamed. “And you’d better get her flowers. You should probably have an entire garden made for her, for that matter. And chocolate.” He started ticking things off on his fingers. “And several new dresses… Oh, and jewelry, probably foreign jewelry, with diamonds. Women like those kind of things.”

Arthur started to protest. Did Merlin have any idea how much all that was going to cost? “Isn’t that a bit…”

“Arthur,” he barked. Since when had _Mer_ lin started sounding so stern? “She’s carrying your child and you didn’t notice. There is no such thing as too much.”

He paused for a moment, obviously trying to think of more ideas. “Oh, and you should probably throw another tournament in her honour. I never saw what was so romantic about them – a bunch of Knights knocking each other off horses – but she seems to like those.”

Arthur felt a bit better about that suggestion.

“And you should plan lots of private dinner, and a picnic. I’m not setting it up for you this time. It’s about _you_ wining the forgiveness of your lady, not _me_ winning you the forgiveness of your lady.”

“You could probably set it up with a wave of your hand,” Arthur pointed out.

“Yes, I could,” the warlock conceded, “but this way you get to find out just how much work it is.”

Arthur was beginning to see what kind of revenge Merlin had in mind. Maybe he’d just get…

“And I’ll threaten George so he won’t do it for you, so don’t even think about it.”

The King shot his Court Sorcerer a suspicious look. “Can you read minds?”

“Don’t have to with you, Arthur. You’re not very original when it comes to thinking,” he teased.

Arthur’s retort was interrupted by a knock on the door to Gaius’s chambers. Gwaine entered, and the King stood. The expression on the Knight’s face was not happy. They stared at each other for a long moment, as if weighing their chances in a fight, and then Arthur turned to Merlin.

He laid a gentle hand on the warlock’s shoulder. “Get better fast, alright?”

He stepped back and Gwaine took his seat, instantly reaching out and taking Merlin’s hand. Arthur didn’t miss the protective glance the Knight shot at the bedridden sorcerer as he stepped out of the room.

He felt relieved, and his steps felt lighter, as if a huge weight had been lifted from his shoulders. This had been the right decision. Things would eventually go back to normal. Though Gwaine might hate him for a while, and his Knight’s loyalty would take some winning back. It might be a while before he repaired his relationship with Gwen, and the counsellors he’d inherited from his father would be upset with his decision to repeal the ban on magic for some time. He’d have to deal with new laws and rebellious citizens, and some of the neighbouring kingdoms would be upset with what they saw as a violation of the treaties they’d made with Uther. But Arthur wasn’t his father, and Camelot was going to be different now.

Then the walls of the corridor turned pink, and he realized just _how_ different it was going to be.

Arthur stopped and stared at the revolting color of his supposedly majestic stronghold. _Oh God, and I agreed to this, didn’t I?_

 


	24. Epilogue: Beginning Again

-Six Months Later-

Arthur disengaged his stare from where it was fixed firmly on the toe of his boot and shot a glare at the decidedly pink walls of the castle corridor. He _really_ didn’t agree with his Court Sorcerer’s taste in decoration. Yes, he and Gwen had just welcomed their beautiful baby daughter into the world, but was all the pink really necessary?

He froze, seeing a magenta garland hanging from a torch bracket, and tried not to lose his temper. _It’s only for one day. Just one day. You’re the famous King Arthur. You can survive one day with a pink castle, right?_

Every piece of him that still clung resolutely to the idea of masculinity and all the virtues contained therein screamed a very loud, resounding _NO!_ to that statement.

He contemplated turning around and storming through the castle until he found Merlin and told him to change it back, but rejected the notion almost instantly. His friend had bottled his magic up for far too long, and Arthur suspected the man was compensating with big, extravagant displays like this. This wasn’t the first display, either. First, there had been those complicated flashy explosions in the sky, which Merlin, being an idiot, had called ‘fireworks’. Then there’d been the talking animals, first the cat, then the horse, because Merlin had claimed he wanted some _intelligent_ conversation for once. Oh, and Arthur didn’t even _want_ to remember that time when he’d been so famously turned bright green like some sort of wood nymph until he’d given the warlock a day off. And the everlasting fountain of mead that the man had made as a birthday gift to Gwaine. Not to mention the self-playing instruments that had blared every time Arthur or Gwen entered a room. And that ‘Narnia’ country he’d found in his wardrobe that day when Merlin had claimed he was bored. And… well, you get the picture.

Still, even with all these displays of – admittedly very impressive – power, Merlin wouldn’t want to put an end to this one. And Arthur could never truly order him to stop. He wanted his warlock to be comfortable showing off. He never wanted the man to have to hide again. Any un-comfortableness he’d originally had for the displays of magic he had smashed to bits. He’d nearly gotten his most loyal ally killed, and he would never let it happen again. And even in the moments when he’d actually go to tell Merlin to put an end to it, it would never work, because he’d find the warlock happily strutting around in those ridiculous blue robes of his with that pointy hat, complete with red neckerchief, and Merlin would give his King the _look_ , the look which happened to be even worse than Gaius’s famous eyebrow _look_. No, Merlin’s look was all big blue eyes and pouting lips and shoulders slouching under a wave of disappointment. Not even his _father_ could have said no to that look, he was sure of it.

The worst thing was, his precious baby daughter, Melora, appeared to have inherited the look by some horrible twist of the Fates. The first time he’d seen her, bundled up in his exhausted wife’s arms, she’d looked up at him with those big blue eyes set in a face with that beautiful dark skin of Gwen’s, and he’d known he was doomed. He couldn’t even say no to _Merlin_ when he had that look. How was he supposed to stay strong when it was his firstborn baby girl? Doomed, he was _doomed_.

He sighed, resigning himself to his fate as he stepped out the front doors of the castle into the courtyard.

And then he stopped dead.

In the center of the stone-cobbled area, a huge statue rose towards the sky. It was a larger-than-life version of he and Gwen, looking adoringly down into a bundle of blankets that was apparently his newborn daughter Melora, recreated in _lavender_ marble.

This was too much.

“ _MER_ LIN!” Arthur stalked back into his – _pink_ – castle. He was going to find his Court Sorcerer and _murder_ him. Or… well, maybe not murder him, but perhaps the stocks. No, even that was too harsh. Perhaps he’d take Merlin’s beloved pointy hat away?

 _Oh God,_ he thought, barely managing his fierce expression as he stalked down the corridor, _I am going soft, aren’t I?_

* * *

-Two Years Later-

“ _Mer_ lin! Why is there a dragon flying towards Camelot? You’re a DragonLord! This isn’t supposed to happen!” He waved a hand angrily at his Court Sorcerer, forgetting that his sword was in his hand.

Merlin took a leap backwards to avoid the blade and promptly turned the weapon into a long-stemmed rose, eyes flashing instinctively gold.

“Look what you made me do! Excalibur is _not_ supposed to be a rose!”

Arthur shot a horrified look at his now-destroyed weapon.

“And really, if you weren’t such a _prat_ , you’d notice that I _am_ a DragonLord and the dragon is obviously here because I wanted him to be!” He crossed his arms and shot a firm look at the rose. It turned back into a sword, and Arthur nearly dropped it as its weight increased substantially.

“It’s a bloody great _dragon_ , Merlin, not a puppy! Why do you want it here?”

“ _It_ is a _him_ , Arthur,” the warlock scolded. “And Gwaine wanted to meet Kilgharrah.” He glowered at his King, probably offended on behalf of his giant lizard pet.

Arthur sighed inwardly, sheathing Excalibur before the famous sword got turned into something more embarrassing. “And Gwaine gets what he wants because…?”

“Because I promised, and I actually keep my promises, unlike a certain neglecting father I could mention.” He gestured a hand behind Arthur, and he turned just in time to nearly be knocked over by his two-year-old daughter.

“Daddy!”

Arthur grinned and caught up his gorgeous baby girl in his arms, feeling a twinge of guilt. He was supposed to spend today with his daughter, but that really hadn’t happened. “Melora!”

“I wanna ride the dragon!” Melora exclaimed happily. “Unca Merwin, can I ride the dragon?”

Arthur’s smile changed to a look of horror in a matter of seconds. “No! Melora…”

The little girl’s big blue eyes filled with tears. “But I wanna ride the dragon!” she insisted, pouting, little pink lips quivering.

“I’d let you ride the dragon, sweetheart,” Merlin said happily, not helping matters in the least.

“Merlin!” Arthur reprimanded him, seeing the way his daughter’s eyes lit up.

“Fine,” the warlock turned away, “But it’s not my fault that she’s going to cry.”

Melora burst into tears.

“Oh, Melora!” Arthur shot a frantic look at his retreating friend, who offered no help whatsoever. “Fine, fine, sweetheart, I’ll let you ride the dragon, just don’t cry, or your mother will be upset with me.”

At this his daughter was all smiles, done crying in an instant. She sniffled slightly and then struggled to be put down. “Yay! Unca Merwin, daddy says I can!”

Merlin’s chuckle drifted back down the hall. “I knew he would, sweetie. He could never resist those eyes.”

Arthur watched his daughter scamper off after his friend, feeling distinctly disgruntled. “You’re the one who taught her how in the first place,” he growled, stalking after them.

“You deserve it.” Merlin turned to grin at him. “Now everyone knows exactly how to order you around. It makes you a much better King. No executions, banishments or wars. You can just go play nice with a dragon.”

“Idiot,” Arthur muttered, not really meaning it.

Merlin smiled. “Prat.”

And they walked side by side to meet the dragon, because whatever their differences, they were still the two sides of the same coin, destined to create a new era dawning after the ending of the old. Because the end truly was only the beginning.

And, truthfully, Arthur would really never be able to resist those eyes. Or the threats of being turned into a tree. Being a warlock _did_ have advantages.

**~The End~**


End file.
